Opera Shadow: Amélie's Tale
by Caelia di Mekio
Summary: A young journalist is accidentally taken 130 years into the past, and becomes an unwilling accomplice to the Phantom of the Opera. Can Amélie Cammelle survive a year in the Phantom's clutches? Or is she doomed to die in the past, never to see those she cares about again?
1. Falling Backward

Amélie Cammelle ran her eyes across the article one last time and hit send. Another job well done. Skype popped open on her dock. "Please, please, please, send me something good," she prayed, clicking Accept. "Amélie Cammelle speaking."

"Amélie? This is James. From Supernatural Bimonthly. Remember me?" A face of soft curves and dark eyebrows was grinning easily at her, blue eyes shining eagerly.

"Oh, yes,of course! You were the one who hired me for the Frankenstein article last year. Ooh, my friends hated me for that one..."

"Well, you do know that it was our highest selling issue that year, right?"

"Yes."

"My fa... boss wants more. He says you're good for us, Amélie."

"Oh, I'm flattered," she replied sarcastically. "No one can ever just call me to say hello, it's always to talk about how much money I can make them."

"If you'd told me that, I'd have called you soon-" At that moment, One Day More started blasting in the other room.

"_RAMIN IS BETTER IN LES MISÉRABLES!_" Julie Harris screamed.

"R_AMIN IS BETTER IN PHANTOM OF THE OPERA_!" Alicia Bailey shouted back, turning up the volume on Masquerade.

"WOULD YOU TWO SHUT UP?" yelled Amélie. "One moment, please… "

"James, Amélie. Please call me James."

"James...right...excuse me..." She stood, taking a moment to channel every calm emotion she had in her. "Both of you, out here, now." Alicia stumbled out of her room, her honey blond-highlighted hair mussed, her decolletage almost scandalously revealed by her reproduction of the dressing gown from_ Phantom of the Opera_. Julie poked her head through the top half of her door, her dusty trench coat and patched cap giving away that she'd been in the middle of singing Éponine. "I am in the middle of a phone call with a possible employer, and your damn musicals war is going to ruin that chance! Shut up right now, turn down that racket, or get kicked out!"

"But, Ammy..."

"Butts are for sitting," Amélie interrupted, turning back into her room. James was still on the Skype screen, grinning widely.

"I take it those were the little dynamos who worked with you last time?"

"They've been with me for ages now. I've learned to deal with them."

"Okay, well, listen, why don't we talk in the Coffee Foundry? It'll be much quieter."

"That does sound nice," mused Amélie. "Fifteen minutes from now?"

"I'll be waiting." He winked at her before closing the conversation. Amélie quickly slid her laptop into its carrier so she could take it with her.

"Julie, where's my charger? And for that matter," she paused to touch her bare throat, "where's the locket Papa sent me for my birthday last year?"

"How should I know?" Julie asked, blinking her brown eyes innocently.

"Oh, please! I know you were using it during your Fantine phase last week!"

"Busted!" Alicia trilled gleefully.

"Alicia, don't you dare start with me." Amélie interrupted, striding into Julie's room and rummaging through her jewelry box. "Seeing as you stole one of my Mum's rings for that damned 'lair scene' that makes you bawl like a baby!"

"Wait, noooo! Not my Les Mis charm bracelet!" Julie wailed as Amélie tossed the silver chain out of the box and over her shoulder. "Omigod! Is the flag okay? Cosette! Oh, little Cosette! Speak to me!"

"You are pathetic," Amélie sighed, lifting up the delicate gold chain and cameo pendant she'd been searching for. "I'm going out now."

"Ammy, you've got a date!" Alicia squealed. "No way!"

"A work date, seeing as I can't have a conversation without you two blasting those bloody musicals!"

"Bloody-"

"Oh, you did not just-"

"_Au revoir!_" Amélie called, slamming the door behind her.

XxXxX

"James, this better be quick, we've got to cover at least five other stories."

"Amélie is brilliant, Dad. I swear-"

"I am through with hiring your girlfriends just so you can coddle them during office hours."

"Bloody hell, Dad, I was here already, you know! Do you really think I jetted out to New York just so I could start a relationship with Amélie Cammelle, journalist extraordinaire?"

"Yes, James, that is exactly what I think. Doesn't this girl have a cell phone?"

"Dad, you've officially gone mental. Amélie's got a strict policy on face-to-face hiring, remember? You're the one who sent me out to **AFRICA** to track her down last year."

"Last year was last year, and you weren't infatuated with her back then."

"Right, Dad. And would you prefer we send one of those freaky girls who spends every waking moment babbling about Phantom? Amélie's a professional. She can write this without a crush on what's-his-name. Would it kill you to trust me once in a while?" He scanned the cafe and saw Amélie at the door, carrying a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and a black messenger bag. "I've got to go now."

"James Robert Crawley, don't you dare—" James hung up on his father before he could hear the full threat.

"Amélie! Over here!"

"James, hi." She smiled warmly, trying to shift the things in her arms. "Just give me a moment…"

"Oh, no… I can get it." He stood up and pulled out the chair. "Please. Sit."

"I have missed encountering gentlemen," she laughed, sitting down and pushing the box across the table. "Would you like one?"

"No, thank you. I just ate."

"Suit yourself." Amélie bit down on a glazed one. "So, what have you got for me this time?"

"Judging from the background noise of our Skype session, I'm guessing you know about the Phantom—"

"Of the Opera?" Amélie asked warily. "Unfortunately, yes, I do. Too much."

"Should I take that to mean you won't want the job?"

"Perhaps you should tell me more before I make my decision."

"Well, the 23rd this September marks the hundredth anniversary of the original novel—"

"Hundred and third," she interrupted, her cheeks turning bright red. James looked at her in shock. Her original tone had led him to believe she loathed the subject. "My friends… they've… told me the original French novel was published in 1908… and the English translation was in 1911…"

"Well, that's the one we wanted to acknowledge, seeing as the musical turns twenty-five this year."

"Oh, I see. You want me to do a double feature on the two of them."

"Sharp as ever." He smiled at her, and she shrugged, popping the last of her donut into her mouth. "So, we'd be sending you to Paris for about a week, and then to London for interviews with the cast of the concert, and the actual performance. Prime seating."

Amélie's jaw dropped as he pulled out three glossy tickets. "James, you must be mad… there's no way my team will be able to function as well as they normally do under these circumstances…."

"You can control them, can't you?"

"Er…." Amélie chewed her lip. "I suppose…. But I am not responsible for any damage the two of them do to the Paris Opera or the Royal Albert Hall." James laughed at her solemn expression. "I am deadly serious. When Alicia finds out, every man in that company would be in major trouble."

"Should I throw in a ticket for him, too, then?"

"No. I'll just keep Alicia on a leash. Julie'll like that."

"Your team doesn't get along?"

"They have their spats, but they love each other, at the end of the day," Amélie sighed. "I do my best."

"And that's why Mr. Crawley wants you," James said, being careful not to implicate himself as being a Crawley himself.

"All right, I'll take it," Amélie said, after a moment of chewing on her donut. She set it aside and held out her non-sticky right hand. James tried his hardest to ignore the shiver that ran down his spine as their skin made contact in the handshake.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Cammelle." A phone started blaring the opening theme of _Les Misérables._

"Dammit," grumbled Amélie, flipping it open. "I have to take this, I'm sorry. Hello?"

"_AMMY! ALICIA'S BEING A BITCH!_" a girl's voice screamed.

"_YOU DESERVE IT!_" another girl yelled back. "_ NOW, BACK OFF BEFORE I BREAK YOUR PRECIOUS BOYFRIEND'S CAMERA!_"

"_YOU WOULDN'T DARE!_"

"_JUST TRY ME, JULIE_!"

"I've got to go, James, I'm sorry…." Amélie stood, pushing back her chair. "That camera they're fighting about is a loaner, and if I don't get over there, I'll be the one buying a new Nikon whatever-it-is for Alex."

"I get it. I'll see you in London, then?"

"Yes."

_**September 15, 2011**_

"Come on, hurry up!" Amélie shoved her bag through the claim counter, looking over her shoulder. "Oh, god, they're coming…"

"Amélie! Amélie!"

"Oh, shit," Alicia cussed as the mob of Amélie's supporters swept over them.

"Amélie! Can I get an autograph?"

"Miss Cammelle, your article on the recent revolutions was positively inspiring! Are you planning to continue with the trend? What's your newest project?"

"Is it true you're dating a corporate scion?"

"No," Amélie laughed, responding to the final question. "Corporate scions aren't my type and I'm not seeing anyone at present. Now, will you let us through? We're going to be late!" Others clamored for her attention until Julie let out a shrill whistle.

"_LET US THROUGH, YOU IDIOTS!_" she shrieked. The swarm of people parted, allowing the trio to pass. "Honestly, Ammy, you had to be so good at your job, didn't you? You had to become a role model for young journalists?"

"I do what I have to in order to pay the bills, which is more than you do," Amélie snapped, sliding her passport to the security officials.

"Are you talking to me, or Alicia, because I do more than—"

"Ahem, bullshit, ahem," Alicia coughed.

"Alicia's right, you're equally useless once the actual investigations are done. I've half a mind to send you both back to Wales once this one's done!"

"You wouldn't dare! You love us and you know it!" Julie declared triumphantly.

"Yes, well, can we talk about this on the plane?" demanded Amélie, whipping her belt off her waist and cracking it over her friends' heads like a whip. "Go! Go! Go! Allez!"

_**XxXxXxX**_

Alex O'Connell grimaced as the phone rang loudly. "Julie, love, why do you always call when I'm working?" he grumbled. After about five rings, it went to voicemail. "Hi, you've reached Alex O'Connell. I can't get the phone right now, so leave a message once the tone sounds. Thank you."

"Alex, it's James," the voice of his former roommate came out with that tinny resonance he despised in phone calls. "Look, I know this is weird, and you're five hours ahead of me, but I need to know? Would Amélie Cammelle really not date someone just because they're a corporate heir? Um… Yeah, stupid. Just like I thought… well, good night."

Amélie, dating? The girl he knew, that sweet plump face that only really cared for her next article… he'd always thought she just was asexual, not into dating at all. In fact, both she and Alicia had never settled down… and Alicia was just too flirty to stay with any guy for long. Julie, on the other hand… he sighed as he readjusted the wires again, longing for his girlfriend.

**_September 23, 2011_**

"Alicia Bailey, you give that back!" chided Amélie, plucking the Box Five key from her best friend's hand and passing it back to their guide. "_Mes excuses, monsieur. C'est la première foisde mon ami à Paris. Maintenant, vous s'il vous plaît de nous montrer les caves_?"

"What did she say?" Alicia asked Julie, who was flipping through her dictionary.

"Um…. My apologies, sir…. It is my friend's… first time in Paris… Now, will you please… show us the cellars?" Julie translated. "Ammy, do we have to? Alicia and I want to have movie night!"

"Fine! _Ainsi soit-il. Ils peuvent être indiqués, mais je tiens à voir ce qui est ci-dessous._"

"_Comme voulez vous, Mam'selle_," the guide said.

"Okay, you two, head back to the hotel. I'll meet you later tonight."

"Call us?"

"If there's trouble." Amélie promised, double kissing them on the cheek, the way she'd been taught by her soap opera-starring mother. "Go on now. I expect you'll have gotten to that silent film of yours by the time I'm done."

"Love you, Ammy," they chorused.

"I love you, too. Now, go on. Get out of here!"

**_XxXxXxX_**

"I won't go further, mam'selle," the guide said, his hands trembling. "It is dangerous."

"Men," Amélie huffed in frustration, yanking the torch out of his hand. "I will go on alone, then."

"But, mam'selle! There is a storm starting, the cellars might flood."

"I don't care! Let me by!" She shoved against his scrawny frame, and easily pushed him aside. The young man's protests continued to echo, but she ignored them, descending further into the cellars. Overhead, the sound of thunder rumbled loudly. Amélie snapped a few photographs of the walls, the arches, and the water, growing increasingly bored. How could people find any of this Phantom garbage at all interesting? As she took a step forward, the toe of her shoe caught on the hem of her blue jeans and she tumbled headfirst into the lake, hitting the water just as the thunder roared again. Her hands scrambled for the shore, everything was surging around her, and then… blackness.

_**September 23, 1881**_

Erik raised his head at the sound of a splash. How could someone have gotten this far into the catacombs without his knowledge? Grabbing his cloak and fedora, he headed for the boat. The splashing was fading… had he imagined it? No…. He saw now.

At the very edge of the lake, a girl lay on the bank, her russet hair thrown across her round face in sopping strands. Her hands had clamped onto the rocky shore, so tightly the knuckles of her hands were turning white, the black strap of a bag clenched beneath her right hand. Then he saw that there was blood trickling down her face, mingling with the threads of her hair. There was a nasty cut on her forehead, one that could easily kill her if it went unchecked. Before he could stop himself, he pulled her up by the arm into the boat. He could just as easily end up killing her later, but he needed answers as to how she had accomplished all she had.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Thoughts? Please note, I do NOT plan on this being ErikOC. With all due respect, the majority of the fics I've read always end up making NO sense as to why Erik would drop everything for another girl._

_**Translating for Amélie: **So be it. They may be shown out, but I wish to see what is below._


	2. Deal With The Devil

_**September 24, 1881**_

"Unnh…." Amélie let out a groan of pain as her eyes slowly flickered open. She was staring up at a craggy stone ceiling, the stalactites throwing clawlike shadows in…. Candlelight? Ugh, but her head hurt, like fire burning at her hairline.

"For your own sake, young Miss Cammelle, I suggest that you do not move. It would be troublesome for me to have to stitch you up a second time," a sharp voice cut in, speaking French. Sharp but soft, like a velvet wrapped knife blade. Damn… she was churning out similes like mad. Maybe she should have been a novelist instead. "Once I have received the answers I need, you are free to do as you like." A face entered her peripheral vision. A bone-pale face, looming over her, and gleaming on the right half of his face…. A porcelain mask?

"Oh, shit," she squeaked in French. "Shit, shit, shit…. Please, for the love of all things holy, tell me that I am dreaming."

"Perhaps… if it's a nightmare you think you are having, mademoiselle," the Phantom said, smiling coldly. Amélie opened her mouth to scream, but he clapped his spindly, ice cold hand over it before sound could escape. "Trust me, it will only be the worse for you if you make a single sound without my asking you to."

"Mmmph," she said through his hand.

"I am going to remove my hand. When I do, you will answer my questions." He pulled his hand away just enough to allow her to speak.

"Suppose I don't?" she asked.

"I may be against physically doing harm to women, but the fact that you are an intruder is currently outweighing that. I will kill you if need be."

"Look, I really don't think that's going to be necessary…. I'm just an innocent journalist looking for answers—"

"A journalist? A reporter?" His hand moved down to her throat. "How did you get down here?"

"Honestly, I don't think you're going to believe me if I tell you the truth, or even if I lie. I mean, it's obvious I don't belong here! I'm in jeans and sneakers for cripes' sake!" His hand tightened around her throat. "Okay… okay… My name is Amélie Cammelle. I'm a freelance journalist from the year 2011. In 1908, Gaston Leroux published a novel based on your story called_ Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_. Since then, it's become an incredibly popular story. About twenty-five years ago, a man named Andrew Lloyd Webber turned the story into a musical. That's our equivalent of an opera. It's now… it's a sensation. I was at the Opera House in my time, doing some research on the original novel, I tripped, fell in the lake, and woke up… in your bed. Oh, God, I woke up in your bed. This can't be real…."

"I can assure you, it is. I even had time to spare during my rounds to read this little book of yours." He held up the dog-eared little paperback. "Rather interesting, really. You honestly believe this… drivel?"

"It's considered classic literature!" Amélie squeaked as his grip on her windpipe tightened to the point of choking. "I think it's bullshit, too, but my roommates love it." He relaxed his hand and she gasped as fresh air flooded into her.

"You are putting me in a rather…interesting position, Miss Cammelle."

"Interesting, how?"

"Interesting in that I could kill you—"

"I really don't think that's the best idea…"

"You would be right in that. Because you can be useful to me."

"Useful?" Amélie repeated slowly. "Somehow, 'useful' sounds rather painful." The Phantom chuckled darkly.

"It will not be, provided you cooperate."

"Cooperate how?" she demanded, getting irritated now. "I'm not in the mood for riddles, so talk straight." He glared at her. "If you please," she added with so much saccharin, it was a wonder her teeth didn't fall out.

"You will act as my—"

"Spy?" interrupted Amélie, guessing.

"Proxy," he corrected, gritting his teeth. "You will help me thwart these events that Monsieur Leroux so thoroughly detailed. And in return, I will return you to the time from whence you came."

"See, there's a bit of a problem with that," Amélie said, trying to wriggle away. "Novels, movies, comics, they all advise against altering the past, it's called the time-space continuum—" The Phantom's hand tightened around her throat again. Think, Amélie, think…. "Alright! Alright! Look, I'll…" she swallowed quickly, choosing her words carefully. "I will do everything I can, within my power, to get you... to the point where you ought to be—"

"Excellent—"

"On condition that, no matter what results I achieve, you will find a way to send me back to my own time," she finished firmly. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it." He looked at her for a long time, his cold blue eyes burning with a bizarre kind of fire. Never taking them off hers, he reached to the side with his left hand, grabbed her right hand in his and stabbed her thumb with a sharpened dagger. "Ow!"

"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you," he warned, pricking his own thumb and pressing the cut pad to hers. "From this moment on, Amélie, we have an accord. Violate it, and the consequences will be severe."

"Severe, as in?"

"As in, I will kill you."

"You'll what?"

"You heard me."

"You're insane."

"And, like it or not, you're working with me now. As soon as that wound on your head has healed, we will begin."

"Begin what?"

"Your training. So that you can pass unnoticed in the Opera."

**_September 23, 2011_**

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," James muttered. He was tired of getting voicemail, and a click told him his efforts were finally being rewarded.

"Alex O'Connell."

"Alex, it's me, James."

"Jim! My man! I got your call! So, how long have you been hot for Amélie Cammelle?" Alex's Irish accent made things feel just the tiniest bit simpler, like they were back in their dorm room, passing back and forth a can of pizza-flavored Pringles and moaning about their latest term papers. "I mean, yeah, she's cute, but the teeth really don't cut it for me. I mean, she'd probably bite it off anyone who tried to—"

"Just answer the question, you dickhead."

"Dickhead. Wow. Original, did you think of that yourself?"

"If you were here, I'd be punching you in the face right now."

"Wow, I'm really scared now. Anyway, Amélie… Well, she's not exactly a dating kind of person. I think she's still a virgin. Too focused on work to let anybody tap it, if you know what I mean. She'd probably be into you if she's into anyone."

"Somehow, I'm not convinced."

"Damn it, James, it's just down right abusive for you to treat one of your best mates like this. Asking me for stats on my girlfriend's roommates…"

"It's not my fault you fell for Julie Harris!"

"Have you seen her? Any man who looks at those dimples is a goner!"

"I've seen them. And I'm not that impressed."

"Well, duh. You fell for a chipmunk. A hot chipmunk, but a chipmunk."

"Can you at least call Julie and ask her if I can talk to Amélie? She hasn't been taking any of my calls—"

"Yeah, well, Julie won't either. It's the 23rd, Movie Night. Amélie's probably asleep, or watching Shakespeare In Love, while Julie and Alicia go through every version of Phantom of the Opera known to man. They never take calls on the 23rd of each month. You're going to have to wait until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Alex, I've barely slept for the last eight days!"

"Damn, you do have it bad… I'm sorry for you, man. Night."

"Ah, not your fault. Good night," James sighed, hanging up his phone.


	3. A New Soprano

_**September 26, 1881**_

"Get up, you idiot!"

"Let me sleep, it's early!" Amélie moaned loudly.

"Absolutely not. Your stitches are almost done dissolving, it's time for us to begin."

"Oh, joy. Did you at least find the chemicals I requested?"

"Yes, I did." He held up a bottle. "Remind me why you wanted these?"

"My hair. I get it coloured, and without access to my colourist, my blonde roots are going to come back. Trust me, we don't want that." Amélie poured the mixture into the basin he'd given her for washing and turned around to stick her hair in. "Come back in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen—"

"You can't disturb me, okay? Otherwise, my hair will be a mess and you will not want that."

"Women!" Erik huffed.

"You're not funny, Erik. Now, will you go away? This is what's called 'girl time.' It's when I have some time to myself without you nagging me, or annoying me in any way."

"Bah," he scoffed, stalking off sulkily.

"Big baby," Amélie muttered, closing her eyes as she leaned back a little further. Thank God for secondary school chemistry. "Two full days of him… ugh!" Erik had 'not pushed her' over the past two days, which translated as 'stripping her naked, measuring said naked body, and commenting rudely about her figure flaws.' Amélie had been tempted to snatch off his mask and make a snarky comment of her own, but she'd decided against it. She'd valued her life.

_**XxXxXxX**_

"Are you done yet?" Erik groaned.

"_FUCK YOU_," Amélie hollered in English. She probably thought she was being clever.

"How eloquent. And you call yourself a writer?"

"I'm a journalist, not a novelist. Excuse me for not overly romanticizing every sentence that comes out of my mouth," retorted Amélie, striding out of her small grotto and drying off her hair with a towel. When she pulled it away, it fell to her waist in gently curling strands of wheat gold.

"You… You look lovely," Erik said quietly. It was true. With her hair reverted to its natural colour, she looked the very picture of innocence and sweetness.

"Spare me," she said briskly. "Now, are you going to start teaching me about singing, or not?"

"First thing we have to do is get you used to dressing properly while you sing. Here," he handed her the package sitting on the organ. "I picked this up in the black market. It's roughly your size."

"Thanks…" Amélie unwrapped it and examined the shimmering green dress. "It's pretty. A little outdated, if I remember the styles properly."

"It'll be enough for while you and I are alone. Now go put it on, then come back out here. And do not take too long."

"Hmph. Please, I am not one of those girls who takes fifteen years to get dressed," she huffed in annoyance, flouncing back into the grotto. "Wait, is that a corset? Oh, shit, no… I cannot do this…"

"Amélie, do you need help?" he asked warily.

"Pervert!"

"Trust me, I do not think of you that way, nor will I ever."

"Thank God for that… And yes, if that's the case, come help me lace this thing up." Erik grimaced as he stepped in. She'd had the foresight to put on the underskirt and chemise before he entered, thank God for that… He grabbed the laces and pulled, making her gasp. "Not so tight!" she shrieked.

"You're too chubby as it currently stands, Amélie."

"Whatever. Carlotta's fatter than I am. I saw photographs of her in the old newspapers."

"Yes, but she's a fat old toad," he objected, pulling at the laces again. She shrieked again. "Sorry. That may have been a bit much."

_"YOU THINK?"_

"Keep your voice down," he ordered. The glare she gave him was cold enough that he added a "please" through gritted teeth. "There. I assume you can do the rest on your own?"

"I can. So get out," she mimicked his tone to perfection, and he had to admit, it did sound annoyingly condescending.

"Very well. I yield on that point."

"Glad to hear it, O, Pigheaded one."

"Pigheaded one?"

"I don't hear you denying it," Amélie trilled smugly.

"Hmph. I want to hear you singing opera, not taunts. Understand?"

"Fine." Amélie stepped back into his vision. "Where do we start?"

"With scales. Like so." He played out a scale. "Sing it back to me. I trust you know solfage?"

"Do re mi fa sol la ti do?" Amélie sang.

"That's right. You're going flat because you have a heavy vibrato. We're going to have to control that."

"Oh, for cripes' sake, it's not like I have to be absolutely perfect."

"Actually, you do. The chorus, as it stands, is abysmal. Try it again. I'm giving you the starting note only." He pressed his finger on middle C.

"Do re mi fa sol la ti do," Amélie sang.

"And now you're going sharp. You can't focus on only one thing. You have to pay attention to notes and vibrato. Hitting a pitch is one thing, maintaining it is another. Understand?"

"I think so."

_**October 1, 1881**_

Clutching her sheaf of music to her chest, Amélie made her way through the Opera foyer. "Excuse me? Monsieur Firmin? Monsieur Andre? Is anyone here?"

"Who is it?" A portly, balding man came out of one of the doors.

"My name's Amélie Cammelle, sir. I've come to audition for the company."

"I didn't realize we were holding auditions," he muttered. "But we are short on cast members ever since that chandelier incident…."

"Chandelier incident?" Amélie repeated, feigning innocence. Of course she knew what he was talking about, but she couldn't let him know that…

"Er… never mind… Monsieur Reyer's office is down the hall, and the first door on the left. Go on now."

"Thank you, sir," Amélie gave a little nod as she headed down the corridor. "Monsieur Reyer?"

"In here, Mademoiselle." Reyer opened his door. "May I help you?"

"I want to audition for the company, monsieur." She pulled out the letter Erik had forged. "I have my references here, from London's Royal Opera House."

"Your voice part?" he asked briskly, taking the letter.

"Soprano. My voice can hit a D six comfortably." Erik's terms, not hers. Had it been up to her, she'd have been singing mezzo.

"Let's hear you, then. Your music."

Amélie handed over her folder. "It's Schubert's Ellens Gesang 3, Op. 52/6… the Ave Maria."

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Cammelle." Amélie closed her eyes, and started singing.

_Ave Maria, Gratia plena_

_Maria Gratia plena_

_Maria Gratia plena_

_Ave, ave dominus_

_Dominus tecum_

Her vibrato…. She needed to control it… she clenched her diaphragm and started the next verse.

_Benedicta tu in mulieribus_

_Et benedictus_

_Et benedictus fructus ventris_

_Ventris tui Jesus_

_Ave Maria_

_Ave Maria Mater dei_

_Ora pro nobis pecatoribus_

_Ora, ora pro nobis_

_Ora ora pro nobis pecatoribus_

_Nunc et in hora mortis_

_In hora mortis, mortis nostrae_

_In hora mortis nostrae_

_Ave Maria!_

"Interesting. You have very good technique…. Reminds me of…" Reyer shook his head. "Never mind. Just go to the practice room at the end of the hall."

"Er… alright…." Amélie gathered the last of her belongings and started out. She had a feeling she knew who she was reminding Reyer of: Christine. And she hadn't even met the girl yet. She opened the door to the last room. Several girls in white tulle dresses, ballerinas, most likely, were stretching over at the barre on the far side of the room. A plump redheaded woman was arguing heatedly in Italian with an even fatter, swarthy man. Carlotta and Piangi, she guessed. And in the corner… easily the prettiest girl she'd ever seen. It had to be Christine. Her porcelain skin, pale blue eyes and flowing brown curls… it was almost ridiculous how perfect she looked. The only flaw Amélie could find was that her nose was a little bit wider and flatter than the traditional standard of beauty, but it only made Christine seem more attractive. She had an air of innocence and purity that was undeniably alluring. The petite blonde talking cheerfully at Christine looked over and smiled. "Look! A new face!"

"Oh, Meg, don't get overly excited. You'll scare her away," Christine said impassively.

"It's quite alright. I like getting a friendly welcome," Amélie replied, pasting a chipper smile on her face. "My name's Amélie Cammelle. I just came here from London."

"London, England?" Meg asked eagerly.

"Unless you know another London." Both girls giggled at that, and Christine rose, extending a hand.

"It's lovely to meet you, Amélie. I'm Christine Daaé, and this is Meg Giry."

"Hello…" Amélie shook both their hands, feeling her smile become more gracious. These girls might not have been her squabbling college roommates, but it was nice to be making friends. Yes, the pretenses were technically false ones, but she didn't care about that. She just needed someone besides Erik to talk to.

"So, Amélie, what's London like?" Meg asked eagerly.

"Crowded. Smoggy. Wonderful. I miss it dreadfully."

"What are you doing in Paris if you miss London so much?" Christine murmured, fingering the chain that went down into the collar of her dress.

"I don't really have much choice. I'm here until September."

"Why?"

"I… er… I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

"Oh, yes. I know how that feels… Excuse me…" Christine rose, and stumbled out of the room.

"Christine, wait!" Meg called, running after her. "I'm sorry, Amélie. She's been acting very strange ever since…. Er… since June."

"What happened in June?"

"We're not supposed to talk about it, but the chandelier in the theater exploded, right after a performance of Il Muto. It would have killed Christine, if Raoul hadn't been there."

"Raoul?"

"Oh, the Vicomte de Chagny. He's the Opera's patron, and an old friend of Christine's. Most people actually think they're lovers."

"But there isn't any proof?"

"Not that I've seen, and I'd think my best friend would tell me if she were seeing someone. Are you seeing anyone, Amélie?"

"No!" she blurted, then regretted it. She should have just claimed she had one back in England. Meg looked like the matchmaking kind… "Well, actually, there is this one man back in London…."

"Oooh, who?"

"I can't say. I promised him we'd keep it a secret."

"No one tells me anything," Meg sulked, flouncing off to join the other dancers. Amélie seized the opportunity to sneak out of the room and make her way into the hall.

"I've missed you," a man's voice whispered around the corner.

"Raoul, it's been all of one day since we last saw each other," Christine replied tenderly. Amélie heard the all-too-familiar sound of lips locking. Joy.

"Was it? It felt like eternity." She knew that voice…_ it can't be…_

"_James_?" she squeaked.

"Did you hear something just now?" Raoul asked, his voice becoming sharp and defensive.

"Raoul, it's probably nothing… Please, don't worry about it…"

"Just one moment, Christine—"

"It's not him, I'd know if it was! Don't you believe me?" There was a long pause before Raoul sighed.

"Alright, Christine. I trust you. I always have."

"Thank you." Ugh, more kissing. Amélie tried not to gag as she made her way back to the practice room. She sat down in the corner and started whistling _Für Elise_, the one tune that always calmed her down. Carlotta glared at her, and Amélie smiled sweetly before biting her thumb at her. Both Italians stormed off, jabbering furiously. Meg and the other dancers clapped quietly, and Amélie winked at them appreciatively. After a while, Christine came back in, her hair mussed and her dress slightly rumpled.

"Where did you go?" Amélie asked innocently. "I got bored and had to start annoying Carlotta."

Christine giggled. "Did you succeed?"

"She and Signor Piangi left, so I think so."

"Well done. She's positively hateful."

"I can tell. I have a way of knowing about people."

"Well, now that she's gone, can we hear you sing, Amélie?"

"What?"

"Oh, yes, Amélie, we want to hear you sing!" chirped Meg.

"No, I couldn't…."

"Of course you can! Let me see your repertoire!" Christine snatched up the folder Amélie had left on the piano. "Oh! Vedrai carino, I love this one! Sing it! Please?"

"Oh, fine! If only to get you all to stop pestering me!" The girls laughed as Christine started playing. Amélie clenched her jaw for a moment, then sang.

_Vedrai, carino,_

_se sei buonino,_

_Che bel rimedio_

_ti voglio dar!_

_È naturale,_

_non dà disgusto,_

_E lo speziale_

_non lo sa far._

_È un certo balsamo_

_Ch'io porto addosso,_

_Dare tel posso,_

_Se il vuoi provar._

_Saper vorresti_

_dove mi sta?_

_Sentilo battere,_

_toccami qua!_

As she stopped, she realized Christine was staring at her. "Is everything alright?"

"That technique… Who teaches you?" Christine asked dumbly.

"Er…" Amélie stalled for time. "He doesn't teach me anymore."

"What was his name?" Christine demanded, becoming more insistent.

"He was my brother… Bastien. He's gone. He has been for a long time."

"Oh…" Christine relaxed a little. "I'm sorry… I didn't…."

"Let's not speak about it again."

_**XxXxXxX**_

"I said nine o' clock. It's ten, now, you're late."

"Erik, I was with Christine and Meg. They were helping me get settled in!"

"Bah. I do not accept excuses."

"Oh, look at the big bad wolf, huffing and puffing," Amélie teased, pulling the pins out of her hair and letting it tumble down her back.

"Amélie, stop being rude. You are giving me a headache."

"Blaaaaaaargh," Amélie made a face, making her eyes bug out, and sticking out her tongue.

"Charming," Erik muttered.

"Only around you."

"Aren't I lucky…." he grumbled.

* * *

><p>Oh, wow, it's a snarky brother-sister relationship. In any other story, they'd be falling in love, but not here. Not here. Points if you can catch the meme I referenced, in the form of your choice pairing for Where Epic Musical Characters Meet.<p> 


	4. I Do Not Trust You

A/N: Hi, everyone! How are y'all doing? No need to answer, that was rhetorical. Anyway, where is it that we left off? I believe Amélie and Erik were getting pissed at each other, yes? Lovely.

* * *

><p><strong><em>October 21, 1881:<em>**

"Good morning, Christine, Meg, Amélie!" Isabelle, one of the dancers chirped, hurrying past them. "Be warned, she's coming."

"Enter, stage right, pursued by a hateful old cow," Meg quipped. Amélie and Christine giggled as Carlotta flounced in, stomping on Christine's autumn yellow skirt as she passed. All three young women let out a gasp at the sound of the velvety fabric tearing.

"Merde! This was one of my favorite dresses!" Christine huffed in annoyance. "And the seamstresses won't be back until tomorrow! What am I supposed to do?" Amélie bent down to examine the rip.

"It's not so bad," she said optimistically. "Clean tear, it can easily be hidden by the ruffles at the edge."

"You talk like you know this kind of thing," Meg said, admiration clear in her voice.

"I do. I have some friends back at home who…" Amélie paused, searching for a proper word, "do a lot of pantomimes. They enlist my help in costume making. Why don't we go to wardrobe and I'll fix this?"

"That would be wonderful," Christine said gratefully. "Thank you."

XxXxX

"You can barely see it!" Erik heard the birdlike voice of Meg Giry. "Brilliantly done!"

"Meg, it's nothing, really."

"Nothing?" Oh… oh, that sweet voice. "Amélie, you've a gift."

"Really, Christine, if you think I'm good with that, you should see what I can do with words."

"Is there no end to your talents?" Meg asked, giggling.

"Oh, trust me, there is. I'm horrid with coordination. Can't dance to save my life, can't catch anything, and don't get me started on what a disaster I am with food."

"Dancing? Easily fixed! I'll teach you now, and Christine can sing for us to dance to! Come on!" Meg pulled Amélie off her knees. "1, 2, 3, 4!"

_Heaven_…. Erik let a soft gasp of ecstasy escape his lips as Christine began vocalising the tune of a waltz. The three young women twirled around the costume room, switching partners, and before long, all three were smiling, Christine most radiantly of all.

"Amélie, I've an idea!"

"Hmm?"

"Why don't you help up finish up our costumes?" Christine asked eagerly. "Why give the money to a seamstress when you could do it, and we can help you save up money to get back home."

"Christine, really, that isn't necessary. I'd be glad to help."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Don't worry about it. You're my friends."

"Thank you! You're a godsend!" Christine and Meg pulled her in for a hug, and all three fell to the floor laughing.

"Careful! You'll rip it again!"

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 25, 2011:<em>**

"Pick up, pick up, pick up..." James rolled around restlessly on his bed. Two full days of calling Amélie's cell phone and still no reply.

"_Hello! You've reached Amélie Cammelle. I'm afraid I can't answer the telephone right now, but if you'd kindly leave a message, I'll do my best to reply as soon as possible. Do remember to wait for the tone! Thank you!_" her voicemail message chirped, for what felt like the millionth time. It easily could have been. He'd certainly been calling her long enough. Throwing up his hands in defeat, James dialed the hotel number he'd been provided with.

"Ammy?" A girl's panicked Welsh accent answered without even a 'hello.'

"I'm afraid not. This is James, I'm the bloke who hired you. And judging from your tone, I'm guessing Amélie is not present."

"She hasn't come home since she went into the cellars at the opera! Julie and I are really starting to freak out! Has she—"

"D'you think I'd be calling you if I knew where she was?" James interrupted.

"Well… no…"

"Listen, I want you both to stay put. Contact the Sûreté if you haven't already. Amélie's a French citizen, right?" he asked, flipping through the files that had been collected when Amélie had first worked with _Supernatural Bimonthly_.

"Yeah, and one for the UK, too."

"Right now, we only need the French part. Get that done, then stay in the hotel. I'm going to cancel your original flight and head out there myself. Can you put Julie on the line, please?"

"Sure, one sec. JULIIIIIIIIE!"

"WHAAAAT?" Another girl's voice echoed in the background.

"PHONE FOR YOU!"

"ONE SECOND!" Julie yelled. James heard the click of a phone being picked up. "Hullo?"

"Hi, Julie? I'm James. Alex—"

"Omigod, are you Alex's roomy from college? He's told me so much about you!"

"How much is so much…. Wait, never mind. I just wanted you to know I'm bringing Alex with me. If you could call him and tell him I'm booking him a flight to de Gaulle, that'd be appreciated."

"Of course! I'm curious though…. Why do you have such an interest in this?"

"Auguh…."

"Ohhhh, I get it," Julie chuckled. "Don't worry." The line went dead before James could protest.

* * *

><p><strong><em>October 21, 1881:<em>**

"Say one word about me being late, and I'm pushing you into the lagoon," Amélie warned as from the other side of the grate.

"Charming, as always, my dear secondary protégée. Took the Communists' Road, did we?"

"I wasn't in the mood for a boat ride, particularly one with you," Amélie answered coolly.

"The pain at knowing you deplore my company is unbearable. Now, I have a new assignment for you."

"Oh, really? Why am I not surprised?" Erik ignored her and pulled a cloth off… "No way." She stared at the replica version of Christine, every detail lovingly and painstakingly copied. "You cannot be…"

"Have I ever not been serious about something, Amélie?"

"What the hell do you want me doing to a wedding dress?"

"Any alterations that may be needed."

"I won't do it."

"We had a deal."

"AND NOWHERE IN THAT DEAL DID WE MENTION ME BEING YOUR SEAMSTRESS!"

"You don't need to shout."

"Evidently I do, if I want to get anything through your unbelievably thick skull," she snapped.

"I may be many things, but thick is not one of them."

"Could have fooled me."

"Are you quite finished giving me attitude?"

"Never," she said cheekily, making Erik scowl. "Now, on a different topic. I turned on my cell phone on the way over here. It's working, but the timer's slowed down. Why is that?"

"Always inquisitive…"

"Are you going to answer me, or not?" But Erik was already rummaging through a series of trunks.

"Ah, here it is." He snapped open a dusty scroll written in a language Amélie had no grasp of. "Let me see….one week…. A year… Blood….Electricity…. Water…."

"What?"

"That's what's the composition of the spell is." He spread out the scroll on his desk. "I had originally planned to use this to journey into the past and change the events of…. That night… Anyway, the spell is from the library of Persia—"

"Meaning you stole it?"

"….Yes. Now, the spell is activated by a combination of the passer's blood, and electrically charged water. I'd been meaning to activate it, but there hadn't been any thunderstorms."

"And my coming here disrupted the time-space continuum, and the spell's now on me."

"So it appears. In any case, you're here for a year—"

"A YEAR?" Amélie shrieked in alarm.

"—In this time. Breathe. You will only be here for a week of your own time."

"Oh, well, that's a relief! I won't miss my deadline after all!" Amélie's face widened in a grin. This was great! "Ohmygod, Erik, you're a lifesaver!" Before she could stop herself, she hugged him tightly. "I better get going now, before Madame Giry realizes where I've gone… But I'll see you later! Bye!" She ran up the way she had come, whistling and had just made it to the dormitory entrance when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Well, well, just who I wanted to see." _Merde!_

"Oh… er… monsieur le vicomte… hello…" she said awkwardly, trying to inch away. Raoul slammed both his hands on either side of her, effectively trapping her.

"No matter how fond Christine may have become of you, the fact remains that I do not trust you, Miss Cammelle." It was amazing how bad tempered and unpleasant James' features looked when Raoul was the one wearing them. Raoul... appropriate name. Gruff as a grizzly bear. _What does Christine even see in him?_

"Er, yes, well, do you mind talking about this another time?"

"Don't…" he paused for a moment, then let out a huff of frustration. "Oh, very well. But I am watching you, and if anything happens to Christine—"

"She's my friend. I'm not about to hurt her. By the way, do you have any family in England?"

"What?"

"Never mind! Good night!" Amélie slammed the door in his face before he could ask anything else.


	5. A Different Side of The Tale

_**November 15, 1881**_

"Ugh!" _Another pain-in-the-ass aria to memorize… How many of these does Erik think I need? We're already learning the full score of _Aïda_ for the year's new season!_ Amélie traveled along the damp corridors, groping for the lever that opened the door. "Damn it all…." she muttered as she finally grabbed it and yanked it down. With its customary creak, the panel swung open, letting in the light from the windows of the opera hallways. "Oh, thank God…"

"I don't think you should have much to thank Him for." _Raoul? Oh, shit…._ "What were you doing down there?"

"Down where?" Amélie asked, blinking her eyes innocently. Raoul's own eyes narrowed, their icy blue almost boring a hole into her. She found herself aching for the same blue eyes in another man, in James…. She'd been trying to figure out the connection that made the two men so similar in appearance—

"I. Asked. You. A. Question." Raoul repeated, jolting her out of her thoughts. "I don't know what your game is, Mademoiselle Cammelle—" she winced instinctively at the idiotic rhyming of her name, "—but if you hurt the woman I love, I swear, there will be no place where you'll be able to hide. Not for you, and not for the Phantom, I know you're working with him."

"James, you're being silly!" She tried to duck away.

"James?" Raoul repeated, grabbing her wrist. _Oh, God, why did I call him that?_ "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing!"

"Mademoiselle… Amélie, listen to me, to reason. No good can come of helping the Phantom—"

"What Phantom?" she interrupted. "I've been here only six weeks, Monsieur le Vicomte, and nothing I've seen here indicates any kind of ghost. I'm not like the rest of this superstitious company. I'm British. We don't believe in ghosts." A blatant lie, but he may not have known that.

"Then you had best make sure you stay that way. I will be watching you. For Christine's sake, I hope you are who you say you are."

"Yes, well, I have to go now, I'm helping Christine with our costumes for the New Year's Bal Masque. You've made yourself quite clear."

"I hope so," he said, releasing her arm. "You'd best not let me down."

"I have no intention of doing so," retorted she, flouncing off. Christine was waiting for her in the costume room, tapping her foot under a new forest green dress she'd just gotten.

"There you are! What took you so long? Meg went out ages ago!"

"Just because Meg isn't here doesn't mean you need to compensate for the lack of chatter." Amélie teased, going to the closet that held their gowns, and pulling out Christine's. "Come on, put it on. We don't have all day."

"Are you sure everything's alright?"

"Christine, I've just been accused, for the umpteenth time, by your paramour—" Christine blushed at the word, "—of being in league with a Phantom, which, if you ask me, is the most utterly ridiculous thing I have heard in my life. Now, put on the dress before I get even more irritated. Please."

"Always worrying…" Christine murmured as she pulled off her day dress and slipped on the silky pink costume.

"Why does he?" Christine opened her mouth to reply but Amélie cut her off. "Before you say it's none of my business, it is. I've been accused of things I don't understand, and you can help me. Please, Christine. Tell me."

Christine let out a long sigh and sank to the floor, her skirts fanning out around her. "It's a very long story, Amélie."

Amélie shrugged and bent down beside her to attach one of the silver stars to the the lines of shimmering thread she'd sewn on previously. "We've a few hours. Please. I need to understand."

"Alright…. I'll tell you." Christine paused to take a deep breath, and Amélie used it as an opportunity to reach inside the pocket of her dress and turn on the battery-operated recorder hidden in her pocket. "It all started several months before you arrived. I was singing in the dressing room… to be honest, I did that often. But that night, I heard a voice… it was complimenting me, coaching me. It promised to make me the greatest singer Paris had ever known, and… well, I'd always had a childhood dream of the Angel of Music…. He's supposed to—"

"I know what the Angel of Music is. Some of my friends in London believe in the old legend, too."

"I thought I was finally hearing him… I let him teach me, shape my voice. I gave him my voice… and my soul… Oh, Amélie, you don't know what it's like to hear him…."

"Can you tell me anyway?" Amélie asked, subtly turning up the volume on the recorder. "Just try."

"I am… It's just so difficult to do…" Christine fidgeted with a strand of her hair. "It was…. Every emotion in the world. I would feel elated, so much that I thought I was going to fly out of myself… As though I could do anything… I should have realized what was happening. He was teaching me Elissa's part in Hannibal, and then, just before the gala, he told me I was ready, that soon the world would hear me and love me for my voice… I didn't know that meant he would do what he did…"

"What?"

"He dropped a backdrop on Carlotta."

"Suddenly, I think he might not be so bad."

"Amélie, this is no time for jokes! He might have killed her! She's lucky the backdrop didn't kill her!"

"Sorry… Please… Go on…"

"Well, Carlotta stormed out with Signor Piangi, and everyone thought that we wouldn't be able to perform that night… And then, Meg suggested that I could do it… I didn't want to, I was scared… but Madame Giry insisted." Amélie shivered at the thought. Madame Giry reminded her far too much of the headmistress at her old boarding school, always so severe and mysterious. Or maybe a female Severus Snape without the noble backstory. "So I did it… I sang, and they liked my voice enough that they let me perform at the gala. That was the happiest I'd ever been… I heard his voice, I knew I had pleased him, that I'd done well…"

"There's a 'but' somewhere in there, isn't there?"

"Raoul. We were friends as children, but I never expected to see him again… not like I did."

"You mean… love at first sight?"

"No, not exactly. I can't deny I was amazed how he'd changed from my soaked playmate into the handsome man I saw… But that wasn't it…. It was that he even thought I was worth notice…"

"Christine, any man who doesn't notice you is probably blind or infatuated with someone else. You're stunning."

"Oh, Amélie, you're sweet to say that."

"It's the truth. Please. Keep going."

"Well… If I explained it, I don't think you'd believe me."

"Try me."

"Raoul asked me to go to supper with him—"

"Oh, how sweet!"

"Let me finish."

"Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine… In any case, I couldn't. The Angel of Music wouldn't have approved….But for different reasons than I thought… That was when I saw him for the first time. Not an angel, but a man. A masked man, appearing in the mirror… The Angel of Music and the Phantom of the Opera… one and the same."

"You mean your teacher…"

"Yes! But I didn't realize it until the next morning… Amélie, that night… I wasn't myself. His voice… do you remember what I told you before about how his voice made me feel?" Amélie nodded. "Well, that night… it went beyond that—"

"Oh, please, please, please tell me nothing improper happened."

"Nothing…." Christine's voice dropped to a whisper. "Unless you consider fainting at the sight of a seemingly alive mannequin version of myself in a wedding gown improper."

"That's improper and presumptuous on the part of the one who made such a thing, not on yours," Amélie replied primly.

"Of course, removing his mask that morning was probably not the best thing to do…."

"_YOU DID WHAT?_"

"Took off his mask while he was writing music…" Christine said guiltily. "I shouldn't have, I know, and I regret it every night… that face still haunts my nightmares… But every night, I wonder… Why did he take me back, after telling me that I'd never be free."

"You're not free! Listen to yourself! You're being wracked with guilt about this whole thing! You live in fear he'll snatch you back!" Amélie interrupted. Despite the fearful expression on her face, Christine still managed to glare at her. "I'm sorry… go on."

"There's not much more to tell… Carlotta was cast as the Countess in Il Muto instead of me, as the...as the Phantom wanted, so he caused her to croak like a toad and murdered Joseph Buquet, the fly chief."

"Why Buquet?"

"Because Buquet knew what he looked like. At least, that's Meg's theory, and I'm inclined to agree. And when I heard the screams… I knew something… All I could think was that I needed Raoul to be safe. In that instant, I knew I loved him. That I couldn't bear the idea of living in a world where he didn't exist." Amélie tried to keep her jaw from dropping in awe. The girl was a bloody martyr. No wonder the story ended the way it did! "We went up to the roof, and…"

"You can spare me the details of what happened there," Amélie interrupted quickly.

"It was only a kiss… Alright, a few kisses, but nothing immodest!" Christine protested. Amélie simply huffed and gestured her to continue. "There's not much to tell after that…. The performance went smoothly until it was time for our bows and then… The chandelier… Oh, Amélie, I thought I was about to die! The fire… pieces falling… If Raoul hadn't been there…"

"I understand… And now…"

"Nothing's happened since then. Unless we include your arrival."

"I don't include it." Amélie replied, switching off the recorder. "What are you going to do now? It can't be the end, can it?"

"No… no, I don't think it is the end. But I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Everything just seems so… complicated."

"'The course of true love never did run smooth,'" Amélie quoted. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Christine. Trust your instincts. I can't really offer any advice like you need. I've never been in love. But my friends back in England have, and from what I know of that, the only person you can really depend on is yourself."

"But what if I can't?"

"Then escape. Do what you love most. Sing."


	6. Seething Shadows, Breathing Lies

**_December 20, 1881_**

* * *

><p>"Erik! I'm back!" Amélie removed her cloak as she pushed through the tunnel, being careful not to drop the contents of the bag in her hands.<p>

"About time. My magnum opus is dying as we speak," he said snidely, plucking the bottle of scarlet ink out of her hands.

"You're welcome," Amélie said, pouting her full lips. Erik ignored her, scribbling furiously. "Oh, for the love of God, you're a pain, Erik!"

"And you're sweet, Miss Cammelle," he said, his tone clipped and sarcastic.

"Am I allowed to make any suggestions at all?"

"No."

"Use some of the Lloyd Webber score. It won Best Musical for a reason, you know."

"Stop talking, Amélie."

"At least try it."

"Go away."

"I'm going to bother you until you do it. Bother bother bother bother bother bother bother bother bother bother bother bother both—"

"ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! ANYTHING TO SHUT YOU UP!" Erik roared. Amélie jumped a foot in the air. "You have no idea how close I was to killing you. Who the hell taught you to be that aggravating?"

"My friends."

"You need different friends."

"I knew that. But I'm stuck with them."

"And they enjoy this score?"

"I'd be lying if I said I don't think it's a splendid score. It is."

"Sing some of it to me."

"Let's see… you left off here," she mused, pointing at the words _'if I do not forget myself and laugh.'_ "Aminta starts." She picked up his cloak, wrapped it around her shoulders like a shawl, and began to sing. "No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy… No dreams within her heart, but dreams of love!" Erik raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"It sounded very good. Why is it you never sing like that during our lessons?"

"Because those are boring. Now…" About half an hour later, they had the full song down.

"Sing it with me…" Erik said, turning back to the beginning of the song.

"What? No! I am not singing a duet about sexual intercourse with you!" Amélie tried not to let her face flush, but she could feel her blood disobeying her, creeping into her cheeks.

"I need to hear how the voices work together."

"No. No way in _HELL_. Absolutely not. I won't—"

"Amélie," he said, with surprising tenderness. "Please. Help me." She took a deep breath.

"Only if you promise that we will never, ever speak of this again."

Erik nodded solemnly. "Go sit on the edge of the table, and we'll start." Amélie nodded, and picked up a small porcelain paperweight and rolled it in her hands, running it along her decolletage. She got so absorbed in what she was doing that Erik's voice made her jump. "You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent, silent . . ."

In twelve weeks, she'd never heard him sing, really sing. His voice far surpassed any recording Julie and Alicia had ever made her sit through. It was dark and lush, undeniably seductive. Even given how furious she'd been at him over the past few months, it was hard to resist. "I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge - in your mind, you've already succumbed to me dropped all defenses completely succumbed to me - now you are here with me: no second thoughts, you've decided, decided . . ." Improvising, Amélie kicked her legs out and twirled to face him, lowering her cloak-shawl suggestively. Erik raised an eyebrow in a bemused smirk, and reached out, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her closer.

"Past the point of no return - no backward glances: our games of make believe are at an end . . . Past all thought of "if" or "when" - no use resisting: abandon thought, and let the dream descend . . . What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door?What sweet seduction lies before us . . .?" His finger traced her collarbone, working his way up to her face. Amélie tried not to hyperventilate as he finished the verse. "Past the point of no return, the final threshold - what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return . . ."

_You're Aminta_, she thought. _You're Aminta, act like it_. Following his lead, she began trailing her fingers up his torso as she sang,"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry... To that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence… I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why …" Pulling away, she lowered one of her eyelids in a smouldering wink, and twisted her fingers together. "In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining ... Defenseless and silent, and now I am here with you ... No second thoughts, I've decided, decided…" One, two, three, twist, she told herself, remembering the steps of the tango Christine and Meg had taught her.

"Past the point of no return, no going back now... Our passion play has now, at last, begun... Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question... How long should we two wait, before we're one? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames, at last, consume us?" She wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing his a pretty good look down her dress.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold — the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn… We've passed the point of no return ..." They were locked in an embrace. Amélie felt her body tense as he drew her closer. There was almost no space between the two of them now. Looking back, she couldn't remember who initiated it, but somehow, their lips met. For what felt like an eternity, the two of them were frozen, then Erik pulled away, covering his lips with his hand.

"Erik, I…"

"You can leave now," he choked out, stumbling backwards into the study. "There's… no need for a lesson today… Please, just go…" There was a click as he locked the door.

"Um… okay…" she picked up her cloak and headed out the way she'd come. I did not just do that… I did not just do that…

"Amélie, are you alright?" Meg asked as she brushed past her in the foyer. Amélie ignored her and kept going, heading for the dormitory. "Amélie!"

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 25, 2011:<em>**

"There they are!" James looked over to see a short honey blonde girl and a slightly taller dark haired girl running towards him. "Alex!" The dark haired girl shot past him into Alex's arms. "Oh, my God, I missed you, you gorgeous son of a bitch…"

"Julieeeeee, no face sucking," the little blonde said. "Our best friend has vanished off the face of the earth and we're don't have time for snogging. Hi, I'm Alicia Bailey." She held out her hand.

"James," he took it and shook firmly. "Obviously, you know Alex. So, what's the status on Amélie?"

"We contacted the police. They're running a search, but so far, there's been nothing. I even called Ammy's relatives to ask them to keep an eye out."

"And?"

"No luck. Personally, I think we need to go back to the opera, so I got a citizen's search warrant… well, actually, it's Charles' search warrant, but he signed it over to me."

"Works for me," Alex said, disentangling himself from Julie's arms. "Babe, you go on ahead. I'll grab our shit from baggage claim and get us a room, Jim."

"Will you stop calling me that?"

"Hmmm… nah. Now, take good care of my girl."

"We're going, we're going," Julie said, pushing James and Alicia out of the terminal. "So, James, how long have you been in love with Ammy?"

"I'm not—"

"Don't bother denying it. We both know you are," Alicia chirped brightly. "I think it's brilliant, really. She needs a man in her life. Especially given all that shit Angel's gone through with men."

"Okay, Angel brought it on herself—"

"Julie, do not go there!"

"Well, she did!"

"She never asked to be—"

"While I'm sure this is all quite fascinating, can we focus?" James interrupted. "Which way to the Opera?"

"I'll get us a cab," Julie muttered, marching out to the street and whistling. Almost immediately, a taxi pulled up in front of her. "_L'Opéra Garnier, s'il vous plaît, monsieur,_" she said, her Welsh accent leaking through.

"_Oui, mam'selle_."

"Come on, you two, _allons-y_!" Julie yelled over her shoulder. "Oh, wow, I sound like the Doctor! It's fun! I should do this more often!"

"Julie, shut up!" James and Alicia said in unison as they got in the backseat. The ride to the opera was fairly tense, what with Julie whistling the Doctor Who theme tune.

"Are we there yet?" James asked tersely, jiggling his foot impatiently.

"Yes, we are, thank God," Alicia practically gasped as she hopped out onto the curb. "Julie, you pay him."

"Why me?"

"BECAUSE," Alicia said firmly, "you practically gave me a migraine!"

"Oh, come on!"

"And I can easily incinerate that copy of Les Mis that Philip Quast signed!"

"Do it and you die!"

"Then pay him!" James groaned as the two girls continued bickering, and headed into the opera house. How did Amélie hang out around these two? They were infuriating!

"Monsieur, you are looking lost. May I help?" the doorman asked.

James nodded and pulled out his ID card. "My name is James Crawley, I called the management earlier this week."

"Ah, yes. Down that hallway."

"Thank you…" James made his way down the hall to a door marked '_Gérance_,' and knocked. "Mr. Deniaud?"

"Ah. Monsieur Crawley," an old man opened the door. "Please, _entrez_."

"I'm looking for Amélie Cammelle, sir," James explained as he walked through the door and took a seat.

"Ah, yes, the journalist. A quite a pretty girl…."

"Yes, well, she's under my family's employ, and she's gone missing. The last place she was seen was in the cellars of this establishment."

"_Quoi?_ She was down there? Monsieur L'Ange doesn't like that…"

"Who?"

"If she is down there…. I'm afraid, monsieur Crawley, that the cellars are strictly off-limits. Orders from Monsieur L'Ange."

"What? This is a national building!"

"The company is national. The building itself is a legacy of the L'Ange family." Deniaud held out a card. "That is Monsieur L'Ange's number. Call him."

"Thanks… I will…" James stumbled out to find Julie and Alicia still arguing on the curb. Rolling his eyes, he flipped open his phone and dialed the number on the card. To his surprise, a girl with an Irish accent answered.

"Hello?"

"Um…. Hi… this is kind of weird… I'm looking for a… Charles L'Ange?"

"Oh, of course! One moment!" He heard scuffling in the background. "Pull up your pants!" the girl hissed. Oh, God, had he called while this Charles guy was hooking up with a temp?

"Charles L'Ange speaking," the voice switched to a man's light French lilt.

"Hi… I'm James Crawley, of Crawley Enterprises. Someone working for one of our branches has disappeared inside your opera. Her name's Amélie Cam—"

"Amélie was in the CELLARS?" Charles cut him off. "God, and you wonder why I don't like her!" The Irish girl said something indistinct back. "Well, it's true! Look, Jake, was it?"

"James."

"Yeah. James, look, you and your team, go right down to the lake. Just go. Amélie's got to be back by the end of the week. If she's not, we're all in big trouble."

"What?"

"Go in, ask for the files labeled Cammelle 24601. That'll get you passes all the way down to the lake. Be there at midnight on the thirtieth. She's gotta be there."

"Cammelle 24601? Is that a joke?"

"No."

"Alright, fine…" It wasn't until James had hung up that he realized he should have asked what the Cammelle 24601 files contained.

* * *

><p><strong><em>December 31 1881:<em>**

"Amélie!" Meg tagged at her sleeve.

"Hmm?" Amélie looked up from the window, where she'd been watching the fireworks.

"You've been silent as a mouse for almost two weeks! You didn't even speak during the festivities at Christmas. Whatever is going on in your head, let it go for one night, and enjoy yourself. You're going to a masquerade, you can be anyone you want. So please. At least smile. I'm going now. You'll be along, won't you?"

"I… I guess so…" _Oh, he's going to show up, I just know it… what am I going to do? What am I… oh, forget it, I'm just going to try and have fun… probably get myself drunk off my arse…_ She turned to look in the mirror. The black and silver feather-trimmed panels of her dress gleamed softly in the gaslights. Biting her lip, she readjusted the matching tricorn hat. "I can do this," she muttered. Before she could chicken out, she ran to the doors and opened them.

Of all the songs Julie and Alicia had ever forced her to listen to, _Masquerade_ was the one that had always been the most memorable, and enjoyable. She'd loved the images it had alway triggered in her mind. Now, experiencing it in reality, she was trying not to collapse from the overwhelming spectacle before her. Every way she turned, a new face was staring at her. Remembering the little silver mask she'd bought, she raised it up, and fastened it at the base of her neck, right by the edge of the auburn wig she'd chosen to wear. Having her face covered made her feel slightly more protected from the madness of it all.

"You forget I'm the only one who has ever seen you with your hair that colour, Miss Cammelle," an icy voice whispered from behind her, cold fingers wrapping around her upper arm, the part not covered by her fingerless gloves. Her entire body tensed as she turned to face a man dressed in a scarlet general's coat and a full face gold mask.

"Erik… what the hell—"

"Hush," he hissed. "Dance with me."

"Look, I'm not—" He pulled her closer, leading her in a reluctant waltz.

"You listen damn well, Amélie, you are nothing to me. You are simply a means for me to achieve my ends. You will help me make Christine mine, and then I will send you back, and be glad to be rid of you, nuisance that you are."

"Listen to me. You have to get out of here, you can't do anything stupid."

"I never do anything stupid," he said snidely, twirling her away. As she stopped, she realized he was gone. Amélie swore under her breath in Gaelic.

"I beg your pardon, mam'selle." A young man dressed in a green vest, brown pants, and black boots, mask and hat. A pirate. "I don't mean to seem rude, but it does not seem right that such a lovely young lady should be left alone to dance. Might you permit me the honor of the next one?" He held out his hand, smiling warmly.

"Oh!" Amélie felt her face flush beneath the mask as she slid her hand into his. "Of course!" Her new partner was far more tender than Erik had been. He had a bright, easygoing air that made her feel more relaxed than she had been since that stupid kiss. After four dances or so, she felt bold enough to suggest "Perhaps we should stop for a moment and have a drink?"

"That may be the best idea I've heard all evening," her partner answered, chuckling and nimbly snatching a pair of champagne flutes from a passing server. "So long as we're not dancing, we can talk, and I'd certainly like to know more about you. What is your name?"

"It's A—" Before she could finish saying her name, she heard a ripple of gasps running through the crowd. And as if the icy feeling in her blood weren't hint enough, she could see the blood red material, even out of the corner of her eye. Though she didn't want to, she turned to take in a far more terrifying sight than anything she'd ever dreamt. Erik looked like a Renaissance lord's corpse, resurrected in all his finery, but every bit of flesh eaten away, leaving a hideous grinning skull for his face. For one brief moment, she felt his eyes lock with hers, but the connection was quickly broken as he turned to face the entire crowd.

"For what reason is everyone so silent? Am I to understand that no one missed me?" He laughed cruelly, drawing out a black leather sheath from inside his cloak. Amélie winced at the gleaming gold letters on the cover. "And to think, I brought you all a New Year's gift, a new opera: _Don Juan Triumphant_!" Everyone in the room seemed to suck in their breath simultaneously as he threw it lazily to Andre. "Now, I advise you all to comply with my instructions. After all, we don't want any more unpleasantness like the chandelier, do we?" He turned his head and crooked a single finger.

"Christine…" Amélie exhaled in shock. _Oh, God, no… don't…_ But all the silent prayers in the world couldn't possibly be enough, because Christine was walking towards him, as if in a trance. The whispers of Christine's name died out in a ripple as she got closer, and closer.

Erik reached out and traced his finger along Christine's face, lingering briefly upon her lips before making his way down to the ring nestled at the edge of her dress. "Do not presume yourself free, Christine Daaé. Your chains are still mine, and you _will_ sing for me. **_ONLY FOR ME_**!" _Snap_! The delicate chain broke as he yanked it away, and scarlet smoke and fire erupted all around.

"Amélie! Raoul! Someone!" Christine's voice rose above the other screams. Amélie rushed to her friend's side and offered her arm for support. "Don't let me fall," begged Christine, sobbing.

"It's alright, I've got you," Amélie said gently, helping the shaken soprano up to the dormitories.

"You know him," Christine said bluntly as Amelie paused to open the door. "I saw him look at you, and you looked back. How do you know him, Amélie?"

"Christine, I—"

"Please…" Christine interrupted, lowering herself onto Amélie's bed. "Just tell me the truth."

"Yes… Yes, I do know him. I don't want to… he's cruel, and he's rude, and he scares me half to death. But I swear, Christine, I would never do anything to hurt you. You and Meg are the only real friends I have here."

"Leave."

"What?"

"I need time alone. Please, Amélie. Just let me be."

Amélie sucked in a breath. "Alright. Just… let me know if you need anything…" Amélie said, awkwardly making her way out the door. She pulled off her hat and wig, and exhaled, leaning back with her eyes closed. When she opened them again, she saw Raoul standing in front of her. "Monsieur le vicomte, please, don't—"

"Amélie, I need answers. Christine is in very real danger and you may know something that could save her! Please, tell me—"

"Raoul," Amélie chewed her lip, trying to find the proper words. "All I can tell you is that this man… he's willing to kill for his love of Christine. How much do you love her? What are you willing to do for her?"

* * *

><p>AN: I said it's not Erik/OC, and I meant it. Erik is not in denial. Please review, and I'll have the new chapters up soon.


	7. A Twisting Web

Author's pre-note: Greetings, readers. As you may have already inferred, I've been basing these characters' appearances on real people. Not my friends, but West End performers. So, from now on, I'm going to be playing a game with you all. Review this story with guesses as to which characters are based on which actors, and you will get cookies, grape juice, and a pairing request for When Epic Musical Characters meet.

* * *

><p><strong><em>January 2, 1882:<em>**

"Amélie?" Meg stuck her head in the door. "The managers want to see you. Now. It sounds bad in there."

"I'm on my way," Amélie said, picking up a small black shawl and wrapping it over her new peach silk before heading down to the offices.

"It's an insult! It's disgraceful!"

"Signor Piangi, please—" Andre sputtered, trying to maintain control. "Miss Cammelle… ah…. Just a moment…"

"Both of the little tramps!" Carlotta simpered cruelly. Amélie turned to see Christine and Raoul standing in the doorway.

"What did you just call me?" Amélie demanded, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists.

"Signora Giudicelli, please—" Firmin tried to intercede, but Carlotta cut him off.

"Neither of them have the voice! What has happened to the dignity of this company?"

"What is all this about?" Raoul broke in.

"Er… this…" Andre said, holding out the blood-red score of Don Juan Triumphant. "Mademoiselle Daaé has been assigned the starring role, and Miss Cammelle has the second largest."

"What?" Amélie shrieked. "But my contract is for the chorus! The chorus only!"

"Miss Cammelle, we—"

"And you coddle up to her! To both of them! They're the ones behind this!" Carlotta squawked, jabbing a finger. "It's Christine Daaé!"

"How _dare_ you!" Christine slammed the score to the floor. "I never asked for this, I don't want any part of this!"

"Miss Daaé, please—"

"Andre, she doesn't have to," Raoul interrupted. Amélie let her face soften a little. This was the first time she'd seen Raoul be gentle with anyone.

"These little trollops—"

"_WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME, YOU FAT, SELFISH, EVIL, JEALOUS OLD COW?!_" Amélie yelled, willing herself not to slap the older woman across the face

"Monsieurs…" Everyone turned to see Mme. Giry in the doorway. The spooky old matron held a black edged envelope with a crimson seal. "Another note." Scattered groans of 'ugh,' 'oh, merde,' and 'not again' filled the room.

"Madame Giry, may I?" Amélie asked, holding out her hand. The old woman's eyes traveled over her for a moment before handing her the letter. Amélie delicately stuck her pinky under the flap and pulled away, trying her best to decipher Erik's spidery handwriting. "**Fondest greetings to you all. A few instructions just before rehearsal starts. Signora Giudicelli must learn to act, rather than simply strutting around the stage like an overblown peacock_._**" Carlotta let out a little squeak of indignation. "**Our Don Juan must lose some weight, as Piangi's girth is not healthy for a man of his age.**" Amélie snuck a glance at Piangi, who was covering his stomach petulantly. "**Obviously, our managers must learn to stay in an office, where they belong, rather than the arts. Amélie Cammelle, while she shows promise, must soon learn to hold her tongue and do as told—**" _What?!_ "**And as for Miss Christine Daaé, while there is little doubt she will do her best, and her voice is good, she has much still to learn, which can easily be remedied, if pride will allow her to return to me, her teacher…. I remain your obedient friend and angel…**" The letter fluttered to the ground. "Oh, my God… "

"Amélie…" Christine whispered, rushing towards her and grabbing her hands tightly. "I can't… I won't do it… don't let them…"

"I won't, don't worry…"

"Oh, my God… it's been in front of us this whole time…" Raoul interrupted. "Christine, it's you! You're the answer to all this…"

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Andre asked hesitantly, "do you mean—"

"We can let him think he's won, when we have the ace! If Christine sings, he is certain to attend. And then… we'll have him!"

"You think you hold an ace? He's got every other card in his hand!" Amélie snapped, helping Christine into a chair. "Monsieur le Vicomte… Raoul, listen to me, please! You will only be putting Christine in danger if you do this!"

"And how do you know so much, little brat?" Carlotta demanded, whirling on her.

"You're calling me a brat, you spoiled—"

"Amélie is right," Madame Giry interrupted. "There is no way of turning the tide against the Phantom."

"So you're both his accomplices!"

"Signora Giudicelli, with all due respect, you're insane!" Amélie snapped furiously.

"IF ALL OF YOU DON'T STOP, I SWEAR I'LL GO MAD!" Christine screamed over everyone else. "Oh, God, someone help me…" Amélie immediately hurried over and caught her as she began to fall.

"Let go," Raoul hissed in her ear.

"You're not helping her right now," Amélie said coolly.

"Amélie, please… you have to tell them…. Don't make me… I can't go back there… Not back into that world…." Christine sobbed into her. Amélie held her close, cradling the older girl in her arms like an infant. "I can't do it… I can't bear to have him there, inside my mind, singing his melodies…"

"I won't let him take you, Christine, I promise… I'll do everything I can…"

"You make him seem more than a man, but that is all he is," Raoul broke in coolly. "So why does he haunt us this way?"

"Christine said it herself," Amélie said. "He's inside her mind, haunting her!"

"My Angel of Music… the Phantom… my protector and my predator…" Christine looked up at Amélie, her eyes shining with tears. "I can't refuse, can I? Oh, God, I wish I could…" Her thin hand tightened its grip on Amélie's as the others swarmed around her. After a moment, Amélie tugged gently, and the two of them hurried out of the manager's office. "Amélie, did you mean it?"

"I've said it before, I'll say it again, Christine. You're the best friend I have here. I'm on your side, no matter what— Oh!" She let out a small yelp of surprise as Christine hugged her.

"Thank you… Thank you so much!"

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 26, 2011<em>**

"Oh, my God…" Alicia plucked up one of the pages from the file James had spread out on Amélie's empty bed. "That's her signature… how is this even possible?"

"Wibbly wobbly timey wimey," Julie trilled brightly. "This is so like Blink! Omigod, I wonder if Ammy met a Weeping Angel! How cool-slash-scary would that be?"

"Julie," Alex clucked his tongue with a trace of disdain. "That would mean she was stuck there forever. I can't find any records for her past September 23, of 1882. See?" He swiveled his laptop's monitor for everyone to get a closer look.

"Yeah…" James mused. "It is weird. I've never heard of a Weeping Angel that had a time limit…. Unless…. Oh, cripes. Alex, search for anything that might have to do with her dying."

"Well, now, you're being pessimistic," Julie said. "The Doctor probably—"

"Say one more word about Doctor Who, and I will kill you," Alicia interrupted. "Time Lords, Weeping Angels, TARDISes… they're not real, Julie. But this is. Somehow, our best friend is stuck in the past, and then disappeared without a trace!"

"Well, I don't know about without a trace," Alex said, his eyes whizzing back and forth across the screen, "but there are a couple of names that pop up just about every time I search Amélie's name."

"What are they, schnookums?" Julie asked, wrapping her arms around Alex's shoulders.

"Roger Delaurier, he's a guy from the Opera Company… Bastien Cammelle, the articles have him listed as Ammy's brother, but instinct's telling me he might actually be the Phantom undercover."

"Ammy living with the Phantom? No fair!" Alicia whined.

"Leesh, focus!" Alex hissed, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, the last guy's name is Daniel…. Daniel… Ah, shite, I can't pronounce this…. Jim, help me out, would ya?"

"Only if you stop calling me Jim."

"Hey, it's your girlfriend who's at risk."

"Amélie is not my girlfriend!" James protested, yanking the computer out of Alex's hand. "His name's Daniel d'Angennes-Poigny. From the look of it, this article's a gossip column, talking about the possibility of an engagement between, and I quote, 'the opera's newest rising star and the young Marquis de Poigny.'"

"Ooh, Ammy got down with a nobleman!" Julie giggled. "I wonder if he managed to make her pop."

"Julie, we're talking about a century when ankles were risqué. I'm pretty damn sure there wouldn't be any bumping of uglies," Alicia pointed out.

"Killjoy."

"Pervert."

"Shut it," Alex interrupted, slamming his laptop shut. "We've got to pack up and get down to the sewers like Charles said. And I want to do some poking around anyways."


	8. The Beginning of a War

**_January 17, 1882_**:

A glance to the left. To the right. No one around. As quickly as she could, Amélie slid the panel of the wall open and started down to the lake. The cellars only seemed to intensify the winter chill, and she wrapped her cloak around her a little tighter. "Erik?" she called softly. "Where are you?"

"I had thought I'd made it clear that I wanted you to stay away from me." Amélie stiffened as Erik's spindly fingers wrapped around her shoulders. "Turn around, little Amélie. Go home, and stay out of my way. And shouldn't you be in rehearsals?"

"They're not doing any scenes with me today," she replied coldly. "And the two of us need to talk."

"No, what you need to do is mind your own business before I have to teach you a different sort of lesson." Erik warned, trying to turn her back

"You don't scare me," Amélie said, digging her heels into the ground, stopping him from moving her. "You never have."

"Such lies, little girl. You're on dangerous ground already, do you really want to make it worse?" He gripped her chin tightly, pulling her closer towards him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Amélie protested, her heartbeat picking up.

"Such flimsy, pathetic lies. Do you know what happens to students who lie to their teachers?" Amélie opened her mouth to answer him, but he slapped her across the face. Her head snapped to the side, and her jaw slammed down on her tongue. The salty taste of her own blood filled her mouth. "I have wanted to do that for a very long time. Now, are we going to have any more trouble?" Amélie spit the blood that had pooled in her mouth onto his shirt and glared up at him. "Your last warning. Stay out of this." He shoved her to the ground and stalked off into the shadows.

Amélie remained crumpled on the ground, trying not to swallow. _I hate you_, she thought. _I hope you knock over one of those stupid candles and burn yourself to death. _After a moment, she stood up, brushed the gravel off her dress and made her way to one of the passages that led out to the streets, determined that if she saw Erik, she would punch him squarely in the jaw. She managed to make it outside without meeting him. Taking a moment to figure out how she would explain her bleeding mouth and most likely bright-red cheek, she carefully fell forward into a nearby snowbank and opened her mouth, allowing the snow to get stained red. She pushed herself up and started into the opera house. The lobby was empty, so she had to stumble into the dormitories, holding her hand over her lips as the blood started to leak out.

"Amélie! Oh, my word, what happened?" Meg rushed over to her side. "Your mouth is bleeding! Maman! Someone!"

"Mmmmgh," Amélie whimpered, keeping her mouth shut.

"Just sit down, we'll get help," Isabelle urged, helping her down onto her bed. "Can you speak?" Amélie shook her head. "Oh, you poor dear…" The other ballet rats started crowding around her, each trying to interject.

"All of you, enough." The bang of a cane confirmed the presence of Madame Giry. "Clear away, and let me have a look at her. Open your mouth, Amélie." Grimacing a little, Amélie obeyed the gaunt faced ballet mistress, who gripped her chin tightly.

"Augh!" she let out a yelp as some of the blood made its way down her throat.

"I am not a physician, but on primary inspection, I should think the preferred remedy for this kind of injury is the consumption of liquids only, and _utter_ silence. No speaking, no singing."

"But she's to play Mariposa!" Isabelle protested.

"That will have to wait. She must heal first."

"MMMM!" Amélie moaned.

"Oh…" Madame Giry released her. "My apologies, dear." Amélie ignored her and went over to her trunk, pulling out her nightgown. "Ah… yes, that may be wise. Some rest. Girls, come along, we must rehearse." Once she was alone, Amélie stripped her clothes off and left them in the laundry basket, pulling the nightgown over her head and wishing she was back home.

**_September 26, 2011_**

**_"_**James, put the bottle down, and help me!"

"You're asking the guy who can't tell his phone cord from his iPod cord? Really, Alex?" James shot back, taking another swig of Jägermeister.

"It's _your_ girlfriend we're trying to rescue." Alex reminded him.

"She is not my girlfriend!"

"James, dear," Alicia interjected, wrapping a cable around her fingers. "Do stop saying that she's not your girlfriend, it's only going to make him more eager to do it. We'd really appreciate it if you could help us set up this generator. All you really need to do is press the power button once I've gotten it plugged in. Okay?"

"See, she knows how to ask, Alex." James pointed out, going to the sleek black

"Stop being so mean to my baby," Julie huffed as she wrapped her arms around Alex's shoulder.

"Julie, get off me, will you?" Alex swatted her away. "Now's not the time!"

"You used to always have time for snuggling…" Julie pouted, kicking a pebble into the lake. "Anyway, I don't believe this crap anymore."

"What?! You spent all that time babbling about the Weeping Angels, and now you just don't care?"

"You said it yourself, Leesh, time travel isn't real!"

"It's her signatures, descriptions that match her appearance exactly! What else could it be?" Alicia protested indignantly.

"It could be just a relative! Did you ever consider that?"

"Julie Harris, how the hell can you be so callous when all the evidence is pointing to our friend being stuck in the past?"

"Because it just doesn't make sense! NONE OF THIS MAKES ANY SENSE! We're in Paris! We should be getting swept away by the beauty and romance, sharing crêpes on top of the Eiffel Tower, gawking at masterpieces in the Louvre, and taking boat rides on the Seine! Not sitting in a dank cavern trying something that's impossible!" Julie stamped her foot in frustration. "I'm so over this! I… I wish I'd never even _met_ Amélie Cammelle O'H—"

"Then you're a rotten friend, and an even worse person, and she'd be better off without you!" Alex interrupted. "And I'm starting to think I would be, too!"

"Alex, you don't mean that!"

"Oh, yes, I do!"

"Honey…"

"Julie, she's your best mate, and she needs you. That should take priority over sightseeing, no matter how romantic it is! And if you don't stop acting like a spoiled brat right now, I'm calling off our anniversary trip!"

"WHAT?!"

"You heard me, woman, now get t'work!" Alex barked, his Irish accent becoming even more pronounced with his exasperation.

**_February 1, 1882_**

"Are you ready to try, Amélie?" Christine asked. Amélie nodded, and hesitantly removed the bandages from around her neck. They'd only been there to serve as a reminder to everyone not to have her speak, but she'd grown accustomed to them, like a little scarf. "Go ahead."

"Doe, a deer," Amélie sang softly, "a female deer. Ray, a drop of golden sun…"

"You're doing fine, dear, keep going."

"Me, a name I call myself. Far, a long, long way to run. Sew, a needle pulling thread. La, a note to follow sol. Tea, a drink with jam and bread. That will bring us back to doe…. I'm alright! I'm healed! I'm back to normal!" Before she could stop herself, she hugged Christine tightly.

"Careful, you're going to knock us both over!" Christine laughed, disentangling herself from Amélie's arms. "We should get down to the practice rooms, before Monsieur Reyer has both our heads. And then your newly healed tongue will most likely be useless."

"Alright, alright!" Amélie giggled, following her friend down the stairs.

"Oh! We left the scores!" Christine gasped. "You go ahead, I'll run back upstairs and get them…"

"Best hurry!"

"I will, you go, too!" Christine insisted, hurrying upstairs. Amélie snuck through the back of the practice room.

"So glad you decided to join us, Miss Cammelle," Reyer said snidely from the piano.

"My apologies, Monsieur Reyer."

"Amélie, you can speak!" Meg squealed. "That's wonderful!"

"MISS GIRY!"

"Sorry, Monsieur Reyer…" Meg said guiltily, sitting back down and discreetly tapping the empty seat on her right. Amélie hurried over and sat down beside her. "We're just on act one. At "hide your sword."

"Thank you," Amélie whispered back, taking her seat and reading over Meg's shoulder. "Hide your sword now, wounded knight! Your vainglorious gasconade brought you to your final fight, for your pride, high price you've paid!"

Christine hurried in with the two copies of the script and opened her copy to Aminta's part. "Silken couch and hay filled barn—" she held out the _ah _sound, not a hint of impurity audible, "both have been his battlefield."

_Please, please, please_, Amélie prayed silently, _please let him hit it properly_— "No, no, NO!" Reyer's angry shout confirmed that Piangi had failed, _again_, to sing the proper notes of 'those who tangle with Don Juan.' "Chorus, rest…"

"Mam duw," she muttered as Reyer played out the phrase again.

"Amélie…" Christine leaned over to her. "I need to get out of here."

"Then go. Do you want me to cover you?"

"If you don't mind. I'm going to visit Papa's monument, but don't tell any—" Christine froze, her head turning mechanically towards the piano. It was playing _on its own_, and everyone was singing perfectly in unison.

"Go, now." Amélie urged, handing her a cloak. "I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you," Christine whispered, leaning in for a quick hug before hurrying out the door. Once she was gone, Amélie slowly stood up, walked over to the piano, and banged her fists down on as many keys as she could. Everyone stared at her in disbelief. Then someone laughed, starting everyone else laughing too. Amélie smiled appreciatively at the one who'd started it, a tall, thin man with receding and greying copper hair. He smiled back and made his way over to her.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced, have we?" he asked.

"No," she said, extending her hand. "I'm—"

"Amélie Cammelle," he interrupted, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "Forgive me, but you've become somewhat infamous. My name is Roger Delaurier."

"Oh, yes, the gentleman playing Don Paolo. I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Roger." Amélie smiled a little up at him.

"Miss Cammelle?" Amélie stiffened at the sound of Raoul's voice. "Where's Christine?"

"I'm not telling you."

"What?"

"You heard me, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Amélie… please… If she's alone…" Raoul's desperate tone made her remember one of the scenes of the show. Erik would find Christine, whether or not Amélie told him.

"Oh, my God…. I'm sorry, Roger, I have to go…" Amélie scrambled over to grab her own cloak. "Where is her father buried?"

"Perros-Guirec, but that's two days' carriage ride from here…"

"Are there any other places?"

"There's a small plot reserved for members of the conservatoire… They've a mausoleum there."

"How quickly can we get there?" she demanded, grabbing his forearms.

"My… my carriage is outside…" Raoul set his jaw. "Amélie. You've told me that you will stand by Christine, that she is your friend. Will you help me with this? For her, if for nothing else."

"Stop standing around, then!" she urged, pulling him towards the door.

**_September 26, 2011_**

"Wait…" James held up an article. "Did we have this clipping before?"

"What's it about?" Alicia asked.

"Amélie… Something about an attack in a cemetery."

"What? Let me see!" Alicia snatched it out of his hands. "Oh, my God… Oh, I hope she's okay…"

"IT'S NOT REAL."

"JULIE, SHUT UP!" everyone else yelled.

**_February 1, 1882_**

Amélie leapt out of the carriage while it was still moving, and ran for the cemetery gates, Raoul right behind her. "Open, open, open!" she hissed, tugging at the gates.

"You have to push them in," Raoul said gently. Blushing, Amélie did so, and hurried through the maze of monuments. Then she heard it. The soft, seductive tones of _his_ voice.

"I am your Angel of Music… Come to me, Angel of Music…." Erik stood atop a mausoleum, beckoning to Christine, who was walking towards him, a rapt look on her face.

"Erik, no, let her go!" Amélie screamed.

"Christine!" Raoul yelled. "Christine, please, don't go!"

"Raoul?" Christine's voice came out small and shaky as she turned back towards them. "Raoul!"

"NO!" Erik shouted as Christine ran into Raoul's arms. His eyes locked on Amélie. "So. You've decided, have you?"

"This has gone on long enough, you need to leave her be!"

"_You gave me your word_!"

"You can't make her love you! I'm sorry, but you can't! You just… you have to give up!"

"_Never_." Erik's voice became deadly quiet. "Run all you want, little Amélie, but in coming here today, you have begun war in earnest upon all three of you."

"Raoul… Christine, _run_. Now!" Amélie urged, throwing out her hands to shield them.

"Ah, but wait! A parting gift!" Erik raised the skull headed staff in his hands, and a tongue of flame erupted from it. Amélie screamed as the fire made contact with her abdomen, scalding her skin and working its way up her torso. Remembering primary safety, she dropped to the snow covered ground, and rolled around, smothering the flames. As she rose shakily, she realized Erik had disappeared.

"Oh, Amélie…" Christine hurried to her side, and enfolded her in an embrace. "That was so brave…"

"Aaaah…" Amélie gasped in pain, pushing Christine away to expose the angry red burnt flesh that now covered the left side of her stomach.

"Raoul… help me carry her…" Amélie heard no more before the darkness swallowed her up.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh, wow, I'm really not being nice to anyone in this chapter, am I? Poor Amélie!


	9. Burning the Bridge

**_February 5, 1882_****:**

"Amélie?" A knock came at the dressing room door. "It's me, Christine. May I come in?"

"Of course…" Amélie finished up with her rouge and walked over to the door. Christine hurried in, clutching the embroidered black shawl she wore as Aminta over her shoulders, and carrying a bundle of fresh white bandages in her hands. "Oh, thank you."

"Take off your things, I'll help you get them on. Are you feeling alright?" Christine asked, unwinding the bundle as Amélie removed her loose blue silk kimono and her old bandages. "Oh!" Christine sucked in a breath.

"Is it still that bad?"

"You might want to look in the mirror," Christine answered, chewing her full, rouged lips. Amélie turned and examined her flesh. Three days ago, it had been an angry red patch, moist and gleaming with pale blisters that dotted the scarlet area. Now, the swelling of the blisters had gone down, but some of them had burst, leaving new bright red holes in her skin. "I brought that salve Madame Giry ordered from the company doctor, too."

"Thank God… Please, it's driving me mad."

"Thank you again for letting me use your dressing room. I just don't…"

"I understand… AH!" Amélie let out a yelp as Christine's hands made contact with her flesh.

"I'm so sorry…"

"Just get it done, get it DONE!" Amélie screamed again, panting as Christine worked the ointment into the open blisters. _Neosporin and a Band-Aid_, Alicia's voice chirped cheerfully in her mind, _solves any problem._

"There, that's the last of it." Christine said, setting aside the jar. "Would you like me to help you get your costume on?"

"Please." Amélie said, holding up her arms. Christine delicately wrapped the black corset around her and started lacing it up very loosely. "Christine, dear, you can lace it tighter. If you don't, that stupid dress isn't going to fit."

"Will you stop complaining about your dress?" Meg asked, striding in without knocking. The little blonde was already dressed in her Gypsy Queen costume, tying a colorful scarf over her curls. "I like it!"

"Then _you _wear it," Amélie retorted, holding out her dress. It wasn't _too_ bad on its own, really. It was a nice warm brown color, with a pretty lavender stomacher and matching apron, but compared to everyone else's, it was just so boring! No flounces or gorgeous embroidery, like Christine's, no flattering corsets or flashy colours, like Meg's.

"It doesn't look right for a gypsy, and my costume certainly wouldn't be appropriate for a maid." Meg answered primly.

"Admit it, you hate it, too," Amélie retorted.

"Well… no, not hate…" Meg said, taking the dress from Amélie and holding it so she could step into it. "It's just… underwhelming…"

"I know!" Amélie groaned as Meg pulled it up around her. "Lace me up? You needn't worry about going too tight, the bandages help."

"Alright, I will." Meg set to work at the back of the dress. Christine rolled her eyes and set to work darkening her eyelashes. "I still can't believe you stood up to the Phantom like that."

"Meg, we've been through this before," scolded Christine. "What happened in the graveyard…. We're trying to forget it."

"How could you want to forget it! This is the Phantom of the Opera we're talking about, and—"

"And after tonight, I pray none of us will ever have to speak or think of him again," Christine interrupted.

"You think Raoul's going to succeed, then?" Meg asked.

"He's trying… oh, merde." Amélie said.

"What is it?"

"I, uh, I left my diary in the house, I'd better go get it."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Christine set down her makeup and reached for her shawl.

"No, I can manage. It'll only take a moment." Amélie said, standing up and hurrying out the door. "I'll be back before you know it."

She'd only been telling half the truth. It wasn't a diary, not in the traditional sense. It was a small, leather-bound journal she'd been keeping with the details of her time in the past. Something that she could read when she returned home, to be sure that this whole thing was real. And she'd left it in Box Five, of all places. She rushed past a few police officers and fireman. "I'm a member of the company!" she called over her shoulder as she made her way up to the box. The journal was sitting on the footstool, right where she'd left it. As she rose from picking it up, she couldn't help but stop for a minute.

Even after five months in the opera, the theatre's grandeur never failed to impress her. She stared up at the frescoes on the ceiling and the new chandelier, drinking in every detail, how the light from the chandelier made the gold of the seats gleam, the soft red of the new velvet seats, the flickering of the gas lamps. As she looked down at the stage, she saw Raoul at its edge, kneeling down to speak with a man in the pit. "Give the order," he said briskly.

"ARE THE DOORS SECURE?" the fireman on the stage bellowed. The sound of banging doors and shout of 'Secure!" rang out through the theatre, but Amélie felt the unmistakable creeping presence of the man who had become her nightmare.

"_I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera_," his voice rang out from atop the chandelier. "_I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera_,"coming this time from the manager's box across the house. "I'm here!" he shouted from the statue atop the proscenium. "I'm here! I'm here!" With the final declaration, she felt his cold fingers seize her just as the man in the pit shot at the box. The bullet whizzed past her cheek, just barely missing her, and she screamed.

"You idiot!" Raoul yelled. "Amélie, are you alright?"

"I'm coming down," she warned, pulling herself from Erik's grip and vaulting over the ledge of the box onto the stage. Raoul caught her hands as she landed, to steady her, before turning back to the marksman.

"I said _only when the time comes_! God, man, you could've killed her!"

"My apologies, mam'selle," the man protested, "but, Monsieur, I thought—"

"_NO BUTS. FOR ONCE, MONSIEUR LE VICOMTE IS RIGHT._" Erik's voice was now ringing throughout the entire theatre, impossible to locate its true source. "_Seal my fate tonight, I hate to have to cut the fun short, but the joke's wearing thin, let the audience in, let my opera begin!_"

Everything was silent for several moments, until they were sure he'd gone. "Amélie, are you certain you're not hurt?" Raoul asked again.

"I'm fine, really. I've had worse jumps to make. But thank you. For catching me." He smiled, just a little, but it was actually quite warm and genuine, and made him look quite a bit more like James. "Raoul, look, are you sure you—"

"Yes, Amélie. We have to go through with it now. If we don't, he'll just keep coming after us. One way or another, this is ending tonight. I remember what you asked me. And I know now. Which is why I have to do this."

"If you're sure," she muttered, running backstage and into the dressing rooms. "I'm back."

"Are you alright? We heard gunfire," Meg said, rushing over to her.

"I'm fine!" Amélie brushed off the little ballerina, hurrying over to pull on her black boots. "Honestly, it isn't as though I get injured every single time I go somewhere."

"You could have fooled me. That time with the _snow_," Christine put a certain emphasis on the word 'snow' that made Amélie flush. How had she figured it out? "And then in the graveyard, with the fireballs."

"Oh, please, Christine, don't be rude," chided Meg. "She's been through a lot lately."

"And I haven't?" Christine demanded shrilly.

"Stop it!" Amélie yelled over both of them. "We shouldn't be squabbling, that's just what he'd want. A house divided cannot stand!" She stopped to take a deep breath. "We should… we should get into places. We have a show to put on."

"You're right… The show must go on." agreed Meg.

* * *

><p>"Mariposa, you go with her, and make certain my child will obey," Roger sang. Amélie nodded, and made a curtsy as he exited. She and Christine skipped through the chorus, snatching up the prop food and giggling as the chorus sang. As they froze facing Carolus Fonta, who was playing Passarino, Christine waved her hand lightly, the signal for Amélie to exit. As she twirled offstage, she found herself spinning into an all too familiar pair of spindly hands that clapped a cloth over her mouth. An scent swept over her, making her feel lightheaded and woozy. <em>Ah, <em>merde_, not again. Erik, what are you doing now?_

* * *

><p>Erik picked up his unconscious former protégée as though she were a sack of flour and unceremoniously shoved her into the hidden panel that concealed a large dumb-waiter. He froze just for a moment, looking down at her. Why did she have to look so damned innocent when she slept? He shook it off and lowered it down, Amélie disappearing into the darkness that led to a hidden cavern by the grotto. That half of his task done, he stalked back to the tent, just as Piangi slipped behind it. Without hesitation, he whipped the Punjab lasso around the portly Italian's neck and pulled. Within seconds, Piangi had collapsed, leaving Erik free to take the loose black cloak for himself. He had just finished donning it when he heard Fonta call to him. "Master?"<p>

"Passarino. Go away, for the trap is set, and waits for its prey…" he sang, adopting an Italian accent as he stepped out from behind the tent. Christine sat at the bench in front of the table, her glorious brown hair tumbling down her back. "You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent, silent . . ." She turned towards him, an expression of lazy rapture on her face. "I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge - in your mind, you've already succumbed to me dropped all defenses completely succumbed to me—" He advanced on her and plucked the apple from her hands. "Now you are here with me: no second thoughts, you've decided, decided . . ." He held out the gold goblet to her and her small hands took it, sending shivers up his body where their skin touched.

"Past the point of no return - no backward glances: our games of make believe are at an end . . . Past all thought of "if" or "when" - no use resisting: abandon thought, and let the dream descend . . . " Christine tilted her head back with the goblet, then wiped her mouth with the same trance-like movements that she had possessed that night, so long ago. He reached out and turned her face towards his, pulling her closer. "What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us . . .? Past the point of no return, the final threshold - what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return . . ."

Christine pulled away, her voice trembling slightly. "You have brought me to that moment where words run dry... To that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence… I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why…" She trailed her hands down her head and twisted her fingers together. "In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining ... Defenseless and silent, and now I am here with you ... No second thoughts, I've decided, decided… Past the point of no return, no going back now... Our passion play has now, at last, begun... Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question... How long should we two wait, before we're one?" Her hands slid over his shoulders and he raised his to meet hers. Their fingers locked tightly. "When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames, at last, consume us?" Her fingers brushed against his mask beneath the fabric of the cloak, and he felt her tense, attempting to run. As she stood, he clasped her wrist, pulling her back.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold — the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn… We've passed the point of no re—"

"Turn!" Christine blurted, pulling down the hood.

"Turn…" he said quietly. Amélie had been right. He was going to fail. He turned to run, but saw that damned vicomte standing in the wings with a second gunman.

"Don't fire, not yet." Raoul warned. The marksman nodded, cocking the gun in preparation.

_Christine_… he turned back to her, singing the same tune he'd heard Amélie singing under her breath multiple times. "_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude…_" He removed the onyx ring from his finger and turned towards Christine. "_Say you want me with you, here beside you…_" Christine stood frozen, staring at him with a mix of horror and shock on her face, and did not offer any resistance as he took her hand and slid the ring on her finger. "_Anywhere you go, let me go, too! Christine, that's all I ask of—_" Christine reached up and and pulled his mask away. All the women in the audience screamed. The police man fired and Erik pulled Christine out of the way, trying to protect her from the bullets.

"RAOUL!" Christine screamed as he dragged her along. "Let go of me! I don't want to go back! I don't! Please!"

"_You_ don't want to go back? How the _hell_ do you think I've felt all my life? Living with no kindness, no compassion? What _you_ want is not important to me, not after what you've just done!" he snarled, flinging her down into the boat. "WHY? WHY WAS I GIVEN A FACE LIKE THIS? WHAT EVER MADE ME DESERVE THIS?"

* * *

><p>AN: That's where I'm ending this latest one, because, in all honesty, I'm a believer in giving myself a limit. How will things go down in the cellar? What plans does Erik have in store for Amélie? Is _anyone_ going to end up happy in all of this? We'll all just have to wait and see!


	10. I Understand Now

_**February 5, 1882**_

Erik shoved Christine to the floor and threw the wedding dress down next to her. "Put it on."

"What?" she gasped, looking up at him in shock. "Why? Why should I?"

"Because you don't want Amélie to suffer anymore than she already has because of you," he answered coldly. Christine turned pale at the mention of Amélie's name. "_Put it on._" Christine whimpered, but did as she was told. Erik stalked out, and into Amélie's little cavern. Amélie lay unconscious next to his discarded wax dummy, her blonde hair fanning out around her shoulders, her lips slightly cracked open. "You little… I hope you're happy. I'm going to prove you wrong. She's going to be mine," he snarled, picking up the veil from the dummy and returning to the cavern where Christine was.

"Haven't you had enough blood yet?" she sobbed as he pulled her into the main grotto and threw her roughly to the ground. "Or am I to be your next victim?"

"You brought this on yourself," he answered coldly. "Were it not for this abomination...this infection...you would have been mine. All of this could have been avoided. But instead, I wallow in blood. I cannot know the joys of a woman's love... only hatred... even from the woman who bore me... 'Put on your mask, Erik, you repulsive little monster!' God forbid I ever be loved!"

"Erik…" she repeated slowly, "I…"

"Save your pity!" He jammed the veil onto her head with such force that he felt her wince. "Your fate has been decided, Christine Daaé. And it is I."

"No… No.." she whispered. "No, you need to understand. It isn't your face. It hasn't been for a long time. It's your _soul_ I fear. It's dark, and twisted, and it scares me." Erik turned away, trying to ignore the sympathy in her voice. Then, a slow smile crept onto his lips as a mess of wet brown hair rose above the mist of the lake.

"Ah, another guest, my dear."

"Christine!" Raoul grabbed onto the grate and reached through, grabbing for her.

"Raoul!" Christine rushed towards him, but Erik caught her by the throat. "Ah!"

"No!" Raoul screamed as Erik laughed. _Idiot_.

"I was rather hoping you would come tonight, Monsieur le Vicomte. I'm thrilled to see you complied." He ignored Christine's gasp from the end of his arms.

"Let her go! If you want to fight, I will, but let Christine go! If there's any pity—"

"Pity!" Erik laughed even more wildly. "Oh, such passion at your defense, Christine!"

"Raoul… go, just go…" she choked out. "It's too late… it's useless."

"I won't leave you here! For God's sake, show some compassion!"

"Compassion? What, in a world that has shown me none?"

"Let me see her…" Raoul whispered, dropping his outstretched hand in dejection. "At least let me see her…"

"See her?" Erik released his grip and allowed Christine to fall to the ground, clutching at her throat. "But of course." He casually flicked the lever raising the grate, and watched the damn boy slip under and towards Christine. She immediately grabbed hold of him like a drowning sailor. "I must admit, Monsieur, I'm surprised you thought I would harm her. It's not as though she's Amélie Cammelle, after all. Ah, but wait! _You_ turned Amélie against me, too." Raoul only glared at him as he raised Christine to her feet and turned to go. Erik smirked, reached for his hidden Punjab lasso and lowered the portcullis."Oh, don't go just yet! After all, someone has to pay, and it only makes sense that it should be you!" Saying so, he jerked Raoul away and slipped the noose over his neck, catching it on the bars.

"No!" Christine screamed, running at him. Erik caught her easily and threw her aside.

"Oh, yes! It's all up to you now, Christine! You can save him! Of course, that would mean you stay here, with me, _forever_. Unless you don't want to stay, but then, obviously, he dies." Christine paled, and continued mouthing 'no.' "_The_ _choice is yours._"

"She knew…" Raoul gasped out. "Amélie, she… she knew this would happen...That's why… Christine… don't… don't do it…. I'd rather die… than live knowing you paid the price…" Christine only sobbed in reply.

"Which is it, which is it, we don't have all night, my dear," Erik taunted. "Choose, choose!"

"Sh-shattered illusions… broken dreams. The Angel of Music, the great deceiver!" she screamed, throwing down her veil. "I gave you my mind, my soul, everything blindly! And now, this!"

"My patience is running thin, Christine. _Make. Your. Choice,_" he growled. She looked down into her full skirts, sobbing. "_Now._"

"You've been alone. Alone, all this time… Raoul…" she look back at her lover, tears in her eyes. "She knew for me, too… she told me… I know now… Erik..." she turned back to him. "You've been alone so long… but… but, God give me courage, you are not alone now." She reached up and pressed her lips to his.

What he felt next… was paradise. Her lips were warm, tender, caressing his, her hands gently tracing the contours of his face. As she pulled away, he collapsed into her, weeping. Was this what it felt like to be loved, really loved? To feel Christine's hand carefully cradling him closer? He pushed her away and reached for one of the candles by the organ. Christine watched him silently as he carried it over to Raoul. "Don't hurt—" she began to say.

"AAAAGH!" Erik swiped at the lasso, burning off the noose. Christine rushed to Raoul, gripping his arm as he tried to make a swipe at Erik. "Take her. Now. Go."

"Forgive me if I don't trust you," Raoul snarled. "Christine, let go of me!"

"I won't say this again, Vicomte. Take Christine and Amélie, and go, now."

"Amélie?" Christine repeated. "Where… where is she?"

"In that cavern, over there…" he pointed dully. "Tell her… I'm sorry.. And she was right. Then forget me. All of this."

"But—"

"NOW! BEFORE THEY FIND YOU!" he yelled. Raoul strode past him, everything about his body tense, and entered the cove, reemerging moments later with Amélie cradled in his arms. "Take the boat… never tell anyone…"

"As if any of us want to relive this nightmare," the vicomte spat, laying Amélie down in the boat. "Christine… come on, we have to go…"

"Yes…" Erik whispered, sinking down next to the monkey music box. "Go…" He wound up the music box, watching the cymbals move back and forth. "_Masquerade… paper faces on parade… Masquerade…_"

"_Hide your face so the world will never find you_…" Christine's voice came softly from behind him. He turned to see her standing behind him, holding out his ring in her outstretched palm.

"Christine…. I loved you…" he said quietly. She took another step closer to him and closed his fingers around hers.

"I know," she breathed, bending down to kiss his hands before pulling away and running back to the shore and into the boat. She sat beside Amélie, stroking the unconscious girl's hair with the same tenderness she had shown Erik.

Erik watched them disappear into the mist, cradling the ring and veil as tears streamed down his face. "It's over," he croaked hoarsely. "The music… all over." _Never again,_ he told himself. He would never allow himself to fall in love, to be hurt, ever again. He tossed the veil into the air and retrieved his cloak, using it to cover himself as he used the trapdoor behind the throne and disappeared into the tunnels.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm leaving the chapter off here. I paid homage to Michael Crawford by having Erik say I loved you rather than I love you. When we return, we'll see what Amélie's fate will be.


	11. When One Thing Ends, Another Begins

**_September 27, 2011_**

Tossing rocks absentmindedly into the water, James examined the article yet again, scrutinizing the headline as though he were losing his eyesight. _Opéra Populaire Arrêtée Pour de Bon? _ Beneath the main headline, it read _Fantôme Arrache Deux Chanteurs_. Obviously one of them had been Christine Daaé, but had the other been Amélie? He felt tempted to just give up, and go back to the hotel like Julie had. He didn't even know enough of French to fully translate. He recognized a few phrases like "tenor murdered," and "police on duty," but beyond that, nothing.

"James…" he looked up to see Alicia coming towards him, a steaming mug in each of her hands.

"Thanks…" he said dejectedly, accepting the one closer to him and taking a sip. The sweet taste of _chocolat_ hit his tongue, the flavor much richer than the American or British versions.

"You can't stay here for another four days," Alicia chided gently as she took a swallow from her own mug. "Julie's one thing, she's just a stubborn idiot. Not great with commitment."

"She and Alex have been together for three years." James pointed out.

"Only because she digs his arse." They both laughed at that comment. "Seriously, I've seen her room. She's got pictures of it."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Oh, gross." He took another swallow of _chocolat_. "Now, I don't know if I can finish this…"

"Well, you better, because that _chocolat_ is frigging expensive," retorted Alicia, her Welsh accent thickening. James grinned at the imperious expression on her face. "I mean it, rich boy."

"Oh, God, who told you?"

"Fact checking is pretty much my living, James. And it's not that difficult to get into the employee records at Crawley Enterprises."

"Does… Did you ever tell Amélie?"

"What? No! No, I'm letting the dumbass figure it out for herself." Alicia picked up a pebble and chucked it into the lake.

"Figure what out?"

"Well, everything. I'm not gonna lie, James, I know Ammy had a pretty solitary childhood, but there are some things that you've gotta figure out for yourself. And love is one of them," she explained in a matter-of-fact tone before slurping up the last of her _chocolat_. "I should know, I've been in quite-a-few—" she ran the words together, "relationships myself. An' all of them were crappy."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Ah, don't be! That's how we learn!" She smiled at him, then poked his mug. "You gonna finish that, or not?"

"Nice try, but, yeah, I am." He smirked, dipping his finger into the steaming liquid and drawing a mustache on her face.

"HEY!" she shrieked. "What the hell?" James only laughed and chugged the remainder as he dashed back up the stairway. "JAMES, YOU GET BACK HERE!"

* * *

><p><strong><em>February 6, 1882<em>**

Christine chewed her lip as she dabbed at Amélie's pale forehead. The younger girl was breathing, but only just. "Mademoiselle Daaé, will you at least—"

"Monsieur Firmin, I have told you before, nothing will change my mind," she interrupted. "I am only staying until Amélie's recovered, and then Raoul and I are leaving."

"Monsieur le Vicomte, please—"

"Christine is right, Andre. The circumstances of last night have made it abundantly clear that this is not a place for us any longer. Besides, we already signed with the London Opera." Raoul cut him off briskly. "But we owe Amélie a debt. Remaining with her is the least we can do."

"But with Carlotta gone—"

"I'm sorry, but you will have to find another soprano, and that is final!" Amélie stirred in her bed and let out a soft moan. Christine immediately grabbed a spare pillow and stuck it under the two already beneath Amélie's head. "Please… leave. Let me talk to her alone."

"Whahime…"Amélie slurred, rolling her head to look up at Christine. "Whereserik?"

"Shhhhh…" Christine crooned, stroking her hair. "It's alright, dear, we're safe." Amélie reached out and grabbed at her left hand.

"Wherrizzit?"

"The… the ring?" asked Christine. _How does she know? Surely she was unconscious then…_ "I gave it back to him, to… Erik."

"Where is he?" Amélie demanded, snapping upright. "What happened to him?"

"No one knows." Christine reached down and retrieved Meg's prize from the vaults: Erik's white mask. "This was all they could find of him."

"No…" Amélie's face paled as she gripped the mask. "That can't be it… It can't be over!"

"What can't be over? Amélie, what is it? What's the matter?"

"He was my only way back," Amélie sobbed. "My only way back home…"

"What are you talking about? You're from London, it's only a train and a boat ride away."

Amélie shook her head. "Not my London. Christine, what I'm about to tell you must remain a secret between the two of us, do you understand?" Christine nodded, taking Amélie's hand. "I'm from London, yes, but I was born in the year 1989."

"What? But—"

"I know it sounds insane, but Erik did some form of Persian time spell, that I accidentally activated in my own time… it sent me here… he made me work for him if I wanted go back home… I'm so sorry…"

"Oh, Amélie… you kept that secret all this time?"

"Ever since I came here." Amélie sniffled. "I hated it…" Christine pulled her close and rocked her back and forth.

"It's alright now, he's gone…"

"Which means I can never go hoooooooome!" wailed Amélie. "He's the only one who was able to send me there! I'm… I'm going to be here forever…"

"Would that really be so bad? You have friends here, Amélie. And a life. I know it's still a very small one, but it can grow…"

"It's a _wonderful_ life, and you and Meg are two of the kindest people I have ever met, but that doesn't change the fact that it's not mine. This isn't where I belong. If it was, I'd have been born here."

"But what if that's why you were born? So that you could come here?"

"Let's…. Let's drop the whole time travel discussion, or we'll be here for days. The important thing is, can you keep this secret?"

"Of course I can. You have my word."

"Then let me have some time alone, please?"

* * *

><p>Erik crumpled up the last of his music and tossed it in the fire. He looked around the house and scowled. Furnished with his mother's furniture, meant for a life with Christine… two shattered dreams. The bell at the door rang, making him jump a little. Who would possibly come here? No one knew he was here, the world thought him dead.<p>

He picked up the white bandages from the end table and wrapped them around his face, concealing his deformity, before descending to the door. When he opened it, there was an unmarked envelope on the threshold. He bent down to retrieve it and ripped it open. A card with two sentences penned in neat script stared up at him. _Christine leaves this coming Sunday from the Gare Saint-Lazare, at half past three, on Platform 3. Amélie will be with her._ How… who… It didn't really matter. He was going anyway. To see them both.

* * *

><p><strong><em>February 12, 1882<em>**

"I'm—"

"Christine, you've already told her ten times that you're going to miss her. I think that's enough," scolded Raoul, a small smile on his lips betraying his stern tone. "Thank you, Amélie. For everything."

"Oh, don't be so formal, get over here," Amélie scoffed, standing up on tiptoe to hug him. "You know, a few months ago, I would've been glad to see the back of you. Now you've grown on me. You better take care of her, you hear me?"

"Clear as a bell," Raoul chuckled, ruffling her loosely braided hair. "And you take care of yourself."

"Don't worry, I will!" Amélie laughed, pulling away to hug Christine one final time. "I'm going to miss you both… Now, go, get on the train, or you'll be stuck here until the next one."

"Oh, fine!" Christine wiped away her tears. "But you'd better write to us!"

"Every day," promised Amélie. "Go on, now." She watched Raoul lift Christine up into the train and climb in after her. "_Au revoir! Bon voyage!_" she called as the train whistled and started pulling away. Christine and Raoul waved to her from the windows until they disappeared into the smoke.

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle?" a voice came softly from behind her. A familiar voice. "I'm looking for my sister, Amélie Cammelle." She turned to see a man sitting in a wheelchair, his face heavily bandaged. Even so, she could tell it was him. No one else had eyes quite like that.

"That depends. Do I get an apology or an explanation as to where you've been, brother dear?" she asked, crossing her arms imperiously. She couldn't see his mouth, but the way the bandages crinkled made it evident that he was smiling.

"You were right. I was wrong. And I'm sorry." He opened his arms. "Now, will you please come over here?"

"Only because you asked nicely, you fool," she replied, hurrying into his arms. Erik pulled her close, just as Christine had done, and stroked her hair.

"It's alright, Amélie. I'm here. I'm going to keep my promise to you," he whispered.

"But I—"

"You kept your end of it. I'll keep mine. Besides," he looked intently into her eyes. "You're the only friend I have, Amélie. And I need to make amends for the way that I've treated you. If you will permit it."

"Of course I will, you idiot." she sobbed, falling into him. "Just… never do that again. Any of it… You scared me to death!"

"I promise. Now, will you come home with me?" She raised an eyebrow at him. _Is he bloody serious?_ "As my sister, obviously. I'm not looking for you to love me, Amélie. I just want to do right."

"Then lead on. Take me home."

* * *

><p>AN: Wow, and that was only about three days after my last chapter! Well, see ya around!


	12. Making Changes

**_February 12, 1882_**

"You open it," Erik said, holding out a brass key to her. Amélie took it and placed it in the lock gingerly, turning it and pushing the door open. "Well? Do you like it?"

"It's… it's beautiful," she whispered, stepping into the warmly lit foyer. The walls were decorated with a faded gold pattern, illuminated by oil lamps in delicately frosted sconces. From the feel of the carpet beneath her feet, the rug was very old, but also very well kept. "How long have you had this place?"

"Since the war with Prussia, when I had to move under the Opera."

"You wanted to live here with…"

"Yes," Erik replied somewhat stiffly. "That is something I am trying to put behind me, now, Amélie, and I would appreciate it if we talked about it as little as possible."

"As you wish," she answered in the same stiff tone, pulling his wheelchair in and closing the door behind them. Once she had, Erik stood up easily, and pressed a button on its back, making it collapse. "Wait… that's… that's technology way beyond its time, beyond _my_ time. How did you…"

"Do you know what magic is, Amélie?" Erik asked, sticking the folded up wheelchair into the corner of the hall. "It is energy, and the ability to manipulate energy. It is simply science that has not yet been understood. When one has a decent understanding of both, much more can be achieved."

"I feel like I should know that reference…"

"Possibly. Do you want to see your room?"

"Maybe later."

"Amélie, you ought to rest."

"I've been resting for nearly a week, Erik. I see no point of it now."

"Please, don't be difficult."

"_Difficult?_" she repeated furiously, choking back tears. "You listen to me, Erik, and listen well, damn it! I spent the last week believing that I'd never see any of the people I care about. My sister, my niece, my friends, the man I… never mind, the point is what you feel, Erik, is not pain. You don't know the half of it. There is something worse than never being loved. It's being loved, and having all of that ripped away from you. Never getting to say goodbye, never being able to tell them everything you wanted to. And don't you dare hit me again," she warned, noticing the flexing fingers of his left hand.

"I'm sorry," he said, relaxing his hand. "For all of that. But that's why I came back. I need to send you home, I gave you my word."

"Thank you. And yes, I suppose I should get to bed." She tapped her side, and Erik grimaced at the reminder. "I'm sorry," she murmured gently, "that was cruel of me."

"No, I deserved it. Don't worry, my fireball throwing days are well behind me."

"They'd better be," she warned, starting up the stairs. "Nice banisters. What are they, mahogany?"

"Oak."

"Hmm. I'm losing my touch."

"And now you're an expert on wood?" he chuckled

"Oh, never mind." She rolled her eyes. "Which room is mine?"

"Down the hall, first door on the left."

"Thank you." Amélie turned to the door he had described. "I'll get my things—"

"I already sent word to Madame Giry. As Bastien, obviously, but, nevertheless, your things will be here by tomorrow morning."

"Cheeky," she muttered, pushing the door open with a scowl. She could hear him chuckling downstairs. The room Erik had designated as hers was done up in a very simple, elegant style, with Louis Philippe furniture and lavender wallpaper. Once again, it had very clearly been intended for Christine. She chewed her lip, stripping off her clothes and settling into bed. "Now what?" she whispered, just before she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong><em>February 13, 1882<em>**

"Amélie!" Meg waved as Amélie stepped out of the carriage Erik had hired. "Come on inside, they're making an announcement!"

"It's probably just about a new patron, Meg," Amélie replied, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"You should still come!" The little blonde was practically vibrating with excitement as she grabbed Amélie's hand and pulled her inside. Amélie winced slightly as the fabric of her dress chafed her mostly healed burns. "Come on, hurry up, we may yet have seats in the front!"

"Slow down, Meg!"

"Oh… right…" Meg released her grip and continued at a more ladylike pace into the theater. "I'm sorry about that."

"You've been quite bored, haven't you? Nowhere to dance, yes?"

"I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to move!" the dancer whined, bobbing her head up and down. "I realize that they were closed longer while they were getting a new chandelier to replace the old one, but we still had use of the practice rooms, then! The Phantom's gone, can't they just leave it at that, rather than tearing the whole place apart looking for him?"

"I suppose not." Amélie replied, settling into a seat on the aisle.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Firmin bleated from the stage. Madame Giry's cane banged, quieting everyone. "Thank you. Now, after the, er, events of earlier this month, Andre and I have decided that it is time for us to step down, for the sake of our health." Amélie rolled her eyes. "Given the recent, ah, decrease in cast size, however, before we depart, we have decided to designate a new principal tenor and a new leading soprano."

A few seats from Amélie, Emmeline d'Arnais, Carlotta's old understudy, sucked in her breath eagerly. "As a replacement for the late Signor Piangi, we have selected Jerome Saint-Preux," Andre announced. Several of the men let out whoops and cheers as a lanky young man with dark hair stood and traveled up to the stage. Amélie recognized him as Piangi's old understudy. "And as our new lead soprano, Mademoiselle Amélie Cammelle."

"WHAT?" Amélie and Emmeline shrieked in unison. Meg let out a gleeful squeal, and started the rest of the ballerinas clapping.

"Get up there!" Meg urged, pulling Amélie up and pushing her towards the stage. Emmeline glared as Amélie stumbled up next to Jerome. _I didn't want this!_ Amélie wanted to say, but she couldn't make her voice work.

"Now, there is the matter of our own successor. After much deliberation, we have selected Monsieur Henri Larocque."

"Who was probably the only one stupid enough to take it," Amélie muttered to Jerome, who chuckled lightly as he applauded the approaching gentleman. Larocque looked very different from the distinguished Andre, or the portly, bumbling Firmin. He was solidly built, not burly, just solid, like a wall, which much contrasted with his very rosy, jolly and round face. _Father Christmas!_ Amélie thought gleefully, realizing who his face reminded her of.

"Miss Cammelle." Larocque strode over to take her hand and kiss it gently. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Yes, well, about that, Monsieur—"

"Perhaps in a moment," Larocque said kindly as he moved to shake Jerome's hand. Once he'd finished, he turned to face everyone. "I'm deeply honored to become part of such a renowned business as this, even with all the tragedies that have occurred within the past year. It is my hope, with your help, that we can return this company to all its rightful glory. Naturally, this will require quite a bit of financial assistance, so, may I introduce the Populaire's new patron, Daniel d'Angennes-Poigny, le Marquis de Poigny."

Several of the ballet rats shrieked in delight, and Amélie felt her heart skip a beat. The man coming up the aisle… She knew him. It was faint, but she recognized his jawline, his complexion, his bearing. He was the pirate she had danced with at the Masquerade. Daniel — it was a relief to know his name — mounted the stage and nodded at Larocque before bowing to Jerome and taking Amélie's hand.

"Ahoy there," she whispered cheekily, as he bent to kiss it. He raised his dark eyes to meet hers, and grinned in recognition. "I suppose they're delayed, Monsieur le Marquis, but we finally know each other's names."

"You suppose correctly, Miss Cammelle," he replied. "I believe we'll have to continue our conversation after this. And you, Monsieur Larocque, seem to have stolen the words straight from my mouth." Everyone laughed as he turned to face to the audience. "Obviously, I don't really belong here on this stage, seeing as I don't possess a fraction of the talent that all of you have in your hand." He paused to allow for more laughter. "But I'm glad to help in any way I can to share that talent, that beauty, that culture that this company, that Paris, is rightly known for."

"Bravo!" Roger called out, holding up a bottle of champagne. "I propose a toast! Here's to new beginnings!"

"Hear, hear!" Meg chirped. Firmin and Andre nodded their farewells and slipped out amongst the festivities.

"Monsieur Larocque, a word, now," Amélie said, tugging him to the side.

"May I help you, Miss Cammelle?"

"Yes, it's regarding my recent, ah, promotion. My contract is for the chorus, until this September. Emmeline d'Arnais should have been chosen, not me."

"I was rather surprised by it, too, Miss Cammelle. Mademoiselle d'Arnais has more experience and training, but Firmin and Andre insisted that I tread cautiously. Apparently, this… 'Phantom' chose you for a role in _Don Juan Triumphant_. I do not believe in ghosts, Miss Cammelle, but I do believe that a madman is not to be meddled with, even when he appears to have vanished." Amélie raised an eyebrow in surprise. Larocque wasn't as stupid as she'd expected. "Let me offer you this compromise. Stay, just until September. At that point, you may leave, as your contract suggests, and Mademoiselle d'Arnais will take over. Is that agreeable?"

"I suppose. You should confirm this with Emmeline, though."

"That I shall. Thank you." Larocque nodded and headed over towards Emmeline.

"There you are." Amélie turned to see Daniel, holding two flutes of champagne. "I was looking for you."

"Well, you've found me," she replied, accepting the flute he offered her. "And you wanted to speak to me, yes?"

"Yes, I did. I've been thinking about you quite a bit since we met on New Year's."

"Have you really?" she asked coyly, taking a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickled her throat and made her hiccup.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine!" she squeaked, taking another sip. "Just… keep going, I'll listen."

"_Comment voulez-vous._" Daniel smiled warmly. "I looked for you, after the masquerade, but it seems I was looking for the wrong color in your hair."

"Oh, yes… I was wearing a wig that night, wasn't I?"

"Lovely copper colour, if I remember rightly. You make quite an attractive blonde, as well."

"Splendid compliment," she teased.

"Forgive me, I'm not particularly good with words," he answered sheepishly. The tips of his ears had turned scarlet, and Amélie had to hold back her giggles. "Do I sound like that much of an idiot?"

"Only a little," she said kindly. "It's actually rather charming."

"You flatter me, Mam'selle Amélie."

"If I do so, it is not idly, Monsieur le Marquis."

"Please, don't call me that. I think it's disgustingly formal. Daniel is fine."

"Am I in the presence of a young rebel, then?"

"I suppose you might call me that." Daniel shrugged, indicating her glass. "Do you want more?"

"Have I had it all?" Amélie looked down at her empty flute. "Seems I that I have! I never seem to notice when I do…"

"Are you all right? Do you need any help?"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm perfectly fine." Amélie tried to take a step, but landed on the side of her foot and lost her balance. "Eek!" Daniel grabbed her by the waist and pulled her upright. "On second thought, I may need to sit down. I forgot I don't hold my champagne well."

"Clearly," Daniel joked, guiding her into the house and lowering her into a front row seat. "It's probably best I interact with other members of the company, anyway. Shall I look for you later?"

"By all means, do," she answered, rolling her ankle beneath her skirts. Daniel nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

"You know the Marquis de Poigny?" Meg demanded, swooping in the minute Daniel was out of sight. "Oh, Amélie, you don't know how lucky you are!"

"Why? Should I know something that I don't?"

"He's only the most eligible bachelor in all of Paris!" Isabelle broke in. "He became the Marquis last year when both his parents died. He's the sole successor to one of the largest estates in France!"

"Not to mention handsome," Meg pointed out. "Can't forget that."

"Really, that's all the two of you care about?" Amélie scolded. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"Amélie, that's not all," Isabelle whispered. "When he assumed the title, he gave at least half of his family's fortunes to various charities, orphanages, poorhouses, and the like. He's a good man, by anyone's standards, and he seems to have taken quite a liking to you."

"He was probably just being polite. We danced and flirted at the New Year's Bal Masque, that's all. Besides," she made a face, "I'm the new principal soprano, remember?"

"You deserve it," Meg insisted. "I know you don't believe it, Amélie, but you've got a remarkable voice, and it deserves to be heard. The Phantom might have been a madman in most regards, but he knew about music and talent. He chose Christine, remember? And now, Christine's joined the London Opera as their new star, and you're ours."

"Only until September," Amélie said firmly. "I'm still leaving then. Now, please, let me have a moment to catch my breath."

"Very well. We'll see you tomorrow at rehearsals." Once the dancers were gone, Amélie sat, staring pensively at the rim of her champagne flute. One of the wealthiest and most prominent young men in Paris, expressing an interest in her? Bizarre.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for bearing with me through this. I'm not updating this or Lost Souls again until I've gotten another bit of Don Juan up. See you then!


	13. A Remarkable Young Woman

**_February 28, 1882_**

_ The Phantom of the Opera is a novel by French writer Gaston Leroux. It was first published as a serialisation in Le Gaulois from September 23, 1909, to January 8, 1910. Initially, the story sold very poorly upon publication in book form and was even out of print several times during the twentieth century; it is overshadowed by the success of its various film and stage adaptations. The most notable of these were the 1925 film depiction, Ken Hill's 1976 musical at the Theatre Royal Stratford East followed ten years later by Andrew Lloyd Webber's 1986 musical that in turn inspired the 2004 film adaptation directed by Joel Schumacher_—

"No!" Amélie ripped the sheet of paper out of her notebook, crumpled it up and tossed it in the fire. "_Mierda! Cacas! Merde! Francba!_"

"Amélie Cammelle, I can hear that vulgar language, so stop it immediately." Erik called from his study.

"I'm blocked!" she protested. "I curse in different languages when I'm blocked!"

"Let me offer a healthier alternative." He wheeled his chair into the parlor, bumping over the door stop. "And while we're talking about health, must I continue to use this? You know I'm perfectly healthy!"

"It's called keeping up appearances, Erik. Suppose someone were to visit!"

"So, I'll keep it at the door."

"What if they stay around for a while?" she pointed out. "You're going to need practice, Erik, even with all your manual dexterity. Don't you roll your eyes at me, it's a legitimate point. You can't let your guard down."

"Will you at least hear my remedy?"

"I know exactly what you're going to say," she muttered, dragging her ottoman next to the piano stool. "So, what will we be singing now?"

"Today, that's up to you," he answered, getting out of the chair and transferring himself to the piano stool.

"Me?"

"Anything. You're teaching me now. Show me your favorite song."

"Mine?" she repeated. "Well, all right, I guess…" She reached out and tapped out the starting chord. "Hallelujah…"

"Hallelujah…" Erik echoed softly.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah…" she sang, playing out the chords fluidly. "I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord, but you don't really care for music, do ya? It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift, the baffled king composing Hallelujah…. Hallelujah, hallelujah… Hallelujah, hallelujah…" She was surprised that Erik didn't join in, but kept singing. " Your faith was strong but you needed proof. You saw her bathing on the roof, her beauty in the moonlight overthrew ya… She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, and she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah… Hallelujah, hallelujah… Hallelujah, hallelujah…"

"Cynical," Erik mused.

"What?" Amélie faltered on the keys.

"The lyrics. I understand the biblical references, they're quite cynical, quite accusing of God. I like that."

"I'm guessing you're not a man of faith," she said sarcastically.

"Don't take that tone with me, Amélie, it's disrespectful of your elders. A Catholic girl like you, you ought to be watching your tongue."

"How did you—" she shook her head. "Let me guess. You saw me going to Mass with Chris … with her."

"Obviously," Erik replied through gritted teeth.

"Look, you can't keep making offhand remarks like that. You have to at least act like you're Catholic, even if you can't go to Mass."

"I know how to do that," he snapped, "and you're one to talk, how many times did you see the Marquis in the past two weeks? Ten, at least, by my count!"

"That's what people do when they fancy each other, Erik. They go out to dinner, or take walks. They _date_."

"Not in this time, they don't, not unless you're planning to announce your engagement by next week."

"Someone sounds jealous." Amélie trilled teasingly.

"Stop acting like a child."

"Are you jealous?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Then you _are_ jealous!"

"Amélie, do you honestly think that after _everything_ I've been through, I'd just abandon all of that and start chasing after you?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then do us both a favour and stop acting like it. You're reverting to being a nuisance, and I've only just begun to tolerate you."

"Hmph."

"Are things going poorly at work? Is Emmeline bothering you?"

"No, she seems surprisingly happy. She and Jerome have been thrashing about like a pair of eels lately. It's rather sickening."

"That's all?"

"I think she's thrilled that I've so clearly gotten her designated as the lead once my contract ends. Even if I were to stay, I'd be obligated to take a secondary role."

"Any other problems?"

"None. Roger invited me to luncheon with his wife next week."

"Oh, he's married. Good. One less thing for us to worry about."

"What do you mean? Am I not allowed to have friends in the company now?"

"Amélie, you need to be careful. You've been thrust into a spotlight—"

"Because of you."

He ignored her jibe, and continued. "And you must remember that this is not your era, and the social standards are far different. You have to keep better control over yourself."

"Go away," she muttered, tugging a ribbon out of the neckline of her nightdress and using it to tie back her hair before returning to her desk. Turning to a fresh page in her notebook, she started writing again.

_In September of 1908, a small novel circulated around France, based on true events that had occurred at the Paris Opera. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, written by Gaston Leroux, would have faded into obscurity had it not been for director Carl Laemmle's silent film adaptation, starring Lon Chaney, Sr., Mary Philbin, and Norman Kerry—_

"Tell me about yourself." Amélie looked over at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your life, Amélie," Erik said, wheeling himself over to the samovar and pouring two cups of tea. "I'd like to know more about you. In the five months you've been here, it's astonishing how little I truly know about your life. I want to remedy that."

"Erik—"

"Please, Amélie." He held out a cup to her, which she accepted. "Humor me."

"What would you like to know?" she sighed, taking a sip of the tea. "Go on, ask away. I can tell you're going to keep pestering me until I yield."

"You mentioned a sister, when you first moved in. Care to explain that?"

"Angelica? I didn't always know she was my sister. I should probably go back to the beginning, if you really want to know."

"I do."

Amélie took a deep breath, and began. "I wasn't born Amélie Cammelle. The name given to me by my birth parents is Bridget Elizabeth O'Hara."

"You don't look like a Bridget." Erik mused, mangling the Irish name so that it sounded more like _Breejay_.

"Don't interrupt me," she scolded. "Anyway, my birth parents are Patrick O'Hara, an Irish shipping tycoon, and his ex-wife Elizabeth Cammelle. A few months after that, Elizabeth's brother, Thomas, and his wife had a stillborn baby girl, and Patrick offered me as a substitute. He and Elizabeth kept my twin sister, Angelica."

"And you never knew?"

"Angelica and I were raised thinking we were cousins. She went to Oakham School and studied music, I attended Francis Holland School to learn about writing. We spent Christmas holidays together, but I had to spend summer breaks with Marie in Nice."

"Marie?"

"My adoptive mother. She and my father, and I mean Thomas when I say father, divorced shortly after adopting me. She got summer custody of me."

"Why did they divorce?"

"Because Marie was a _poulet_." She smirked as Erik's jaw dropped. "Yes, I am serious. Say what you will, I've heard it all before."

"And your father?"

"A police officer for Scotland Yard, killed in the line of duty when I was eighteen. That's when Patrick told me that Angelica and I were his twins."

"So, what about your birth mother?"

"Ran off with the pool boy a few months ago. We were never really close, anyway. I was more interested in the fact that Angelica and I were sisters. It sealed that awkward little gap. We'd always felt like sisters, but we weren't…"

"Tell me more about her, then."

"Well… We used to switch clothes and see if our parents would take the wrong one home. One time, we both chopped off our hair to make it more difficult to tell us apart."

"The two of you sound a merry pair."

"We were until Angel got left at the altar."

"Surely you're joking."

"Nope. Richard left her the day of the ceremony. Angelica was heartbroken. She didn't take off her wedding dress for a full month. She even tried to kill herself. I was living in Paris at the time, doing a slum in Marie's apartment."

"Where was Marie?"

"She died from AIDS in 2007."

"What are AIDS?"

"AIDS is an abbreviation for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. It's passed largely through sexual contact. It weakens your immune system so that you can't fight off diseases."

"I see. So you had inherited her apartment."

"Yes, and I invited Angelica to live with me for a while. She did, and started studying with a new voice teacher at the Opera house, where she met his son, Charles. The two of them eloped, and now, they've got a daughter named Aurora."

"I see."

"They're so happy, it sickens me. I gave them full possession of my old flat, and found a place in New York. That's where I've been living ever since with my two best mates from uni."

"Uni being slang for university, I presume?"

"Mhmmmm. I went to Columbia University's School of Journalism."

"So, writing has always been your drive?"

"Well… Yes, I guess it has been. I didn't really have much of a family to speak of, so I… I turned to writing. There were parts of my life that just didn't click, and I wanted to find out more about them, I suppose… I wanted people to know the truth."

"Fascinating," Erik murmured, sipping his tea. "You are a truly remarkable young woman, Amélie Cammelle. Truly remarkable."

"Um… Thank you." Amélie locked her journal. "I think I might go to bed."

"Do you need anything else?"

"No, Erik, I'm fine," she said, rising. "Good night."

"Good night, Amélie," he murmured, squeezing her hand as she pulled away. Amélie stared at him briefly, then nodded before running upstairs.

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 28, 2011<em>**

James returned to the hotel, rubbing his forehead in confusion from the meeting he'd just been in, and the words he'd absorbed echoing inside his head.

_"Monsieur Crawley, I know what I am saying must sound crazy, but you must believe me."_

_"Mr. Lange…"_

_"L'Ange. As in _l'ange de la musique._"_

_"Right, sorry. Look, I'm willing to believe just about anything at this point. So long as she's safe."_

_"She's physically safe. I don't know what this experience might do to her mind."_

_"And there's nothing I can do?"_

_"It's all moot. This journal was hers. It's been passed down in the file for generations. A record, to make sure she arrives at the proper time."_

_"Okay… so I have to be there on the first?"_

_"Yes."_

_"All right… Oh, and one other thing."_

_"Go ahead."_

_"Why call it Cammelle 24601?"_

_"Because I'm terrible at remembering things, and I needed to store it somewhere other than my home now that my daughter has started walking. I can sing 2-4-6-0-1, so that's the number I can best remember."_

_"Oh… Well, now I feel like an idiot."_

_"Deceptively simple, _non_?"_

_"Yeah, that's one word. Thank you…"_

* * *

><p>AN: Amélie now has a tumblr! Look for the URL _operashadow, _and ask her anything. There's also going to be an author's section, where the visual basis for the characters will be provided. Have fun! Also, you now know Amélie's favorite song is Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." If you're going to listen to anyone's version, I suggest you listen to the one John Owen Jones does. It's so gorgeous.


	14. An Ill Wind Blows No Good

Author's preface: Hello, all! Just a reminder to follow _operashadow_ on Tumblr. Amélie is there for all your entertainment purposes. Ask her stuff, check out the visual guide, anything you like. Now, back to the story.

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 3, 1882<em>**

"We should do this more often," Daniel whispered, nuzzling into her hair. Amélie smiled as she leaned into him and he bent his head to kiss her again.

"So long as it continues to be private," she answered, tracing a finger along his jaw, "I see no problem with it."

"Whatever you want," he agreed, smoothing back her hair. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Of course," she said, pushing open the door of the carriage and stepping out. "Adieu."

"Sweet dreams." He smiled as the carriage drove away. She kissed one of her fingers and blew it in his direction before heading inside.

"Back late, are we?" Erik asked from the parlor as she came through the door. "I thought luncheon implied you'd be home in the afternoon. It's now eight."

"I met Daniel on my way home, in the Bois de Bolounge," she retorted, removing her cloak and hanging it on the coat rack. "We went to the bistro, and I lost track of time. I'm sorry."

"I know you met him. It was in the evening edition of the Echo."

"What?!"

"Come and see for yourself." He wheeled his way over to her and held out the newspaper.

"'Young Love at the Opera?'" Amélie read, taking it from him in disgust. She scanned the paper, taking in every sentence. "This piece of rubbish makes the tabloids from my day look positively eloquent! We didn't snog in public or anything! We've just gone on a few dates, that's it! And they're making it sound like I've already got a ring on my finger!"

"You're not exactly doing anything to help matters." Erik muttered, jabbing a tapering finger at her throat. "What are those?"

"What do you…" Amélie felt her face flushing. "Oh, God. Oh, God, I've got bruises on my neck, don't I?"

"Distinct ones." Erik said, smirking a little. "Didn't kiss in public, hmmm?"

"I never said we didn't kiss in the carriage," she protested. "And besides, you're not the boss of me."

"Actually, I am, until you go back to your own time. That's how it works here, Amélie. I thought you knew that by now."

"Feminism is not yet a thing," she grumbled, rubbing at her neck as she sat on the ottoman and grabbed her journal.

"Who is James?" Erik asked abruptly. Amélie looked over at him in shock, completely forgetting about retrieving the key from the chain on her neck. "I don't know if you're aware of this, Amélie, but you often talk in your sleep."

"I do not!" she snapped irritably. Of course she knew she did, she just thought he'd have been enough of a gentleman not to mention it.

"Yes, you do," he said firmly. "And you often mention someone called James. Who is he?"

"My employer," she answered tersely. "Now, can I go upstairs?"

"No. You're lying to me."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are." He grabbed her arm and pulled her closer. "Tell me the truth, Bridget." The use of her full name caught her off guard. "Please."

"The truth?" she repeated. "The truth is my own personal business, and not yours!" Erik gave her a skeptical look. "Look, you know how I am…"

"Guarded? Icy? Rude? Almost incapable of emotion?" Amélie glared at him. "It's how you came across to me when we first met."

"I hate you," she muttered.

"The truth hurt," he replied coolly.

"Let me go."

"Are you willing to admit that you're an icy little wretch at times?"

"Hmph."

"I suppose I'll have to accept that." He released his grip on her wrist. "Be sure to cover those bruises tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, yeah," Amélie snarled, lapsing into the heinous New York accent she and her friends had made fun of countless times. "I'm going to bed."

"Don't bother waking up unless you're going to have a better attitude," he called after her.

"_Pfuit_!" Amélie spat angrily. Why did he have to be so… so… _aggravating_? And how _dare _he bring up James like that? She wasn't even sure how she felt now, now that Daniel was in her life. What did she even know about James? Certainly, he was polite and nice enough, but what beyond that? He certainly hadn't expressed any interest in her. Then again, wasn't that how modern boys worked? Alex had kept Julie on the line for weeks before finally asking her out.

Amélie flopped back on the bed, and winced as the frame of her bustle dug into her backside. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she grumbled, unlacing her dress and yanking both it and the frame off. "I _hate_ these fashions." She tossed them both into the corner of her room, and snatched up her journal.

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 18, 2009<em>**

"AMMYAMMYAMMY!" Angelica shot through the door, practically vibrating with excitement. "Look!"

"Hold." Amélie placed a finger over Angelica's lips and performed a complicated series of one handed finger gymnastics across her keyboard, finishing with a triumphant click on the 'send' button. "Now talk."

"He proposed! Charles proposed!"Angelica's blonde layers bounced as she jumped up and down, waving her left hand as though it had been set ablaze. Amélie was able to catch a glimpse of the sparkling diamond ring on her third finger. "Ohmygod, isn't it perfect?"

"Does your dad know?"

"Well…"

"Then don't book the honeymoon just yet. Anyway, I thought you hated Charles, and vice versa." Amélie pulled out her notepad. "How did you describe him that first day when he stood in for his dad? Ah, here it is. 'Rude, arrogant, cute, and completely irritating.'"

"Well, things changed. Besides, I did mention that he was cute!"

"Angel, you met him a month ago."

"He's the one! I know it!"

"Enlighten me."

"Well, for one thing, on our next lesson, he brought in 'Princess.' You know, from _A Man of No Importance_?"

"Since when do I care about any music other than Queen?"

"Oh, ugh, you're hopeless. You should know it's my favourite!"

"Noted. Continue."

"He called my accent cute!"

"Riiiiight. That just means he has poor taste in accents. He's got a French one. Those can be hideous."

"Stop right there. I don't want to hear about your mum."

"And I don't want to hear about your new boyfriend."

"_Fiancé._"

"I wouldn't call him that if Patrick riddles him with bullets when you bring him home."

"Who says I'm bringing him home? Da can't do anything if the two of us elope."

"You want to elope with someone you hardly know? I knew you were mad, this just confirms it.

"Can't you just be happy for me?"

"One of us has to be practical. How are you two suddenly in lo—" Amélie groaned. "Oh, God. Those late nights… excessive use of Chanel No. 5… You two started hooking up after day two, didn't you?"

"We used protection!"

"Not another word…"

"Oh, come on, admit it. You at least get the appeal, don't you?"

"Meh. I only saw him that one time. Load of black hair, stupid gap between his teeth?"

"It's adorable!" Angelica protested. "Please, Ammy. Say you're happy for me!"

"Of course I am. Just be sure to bring him back to me for an arse whipping if he breaks your heart."

"Why would I ever do anything else?" Angelica chuckled.

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 3, 1882<em>**

**_"_**Yeah, no wonder I've never really dated before. It was not worth my time…" And now… now there was Daniel. Daniel who listened, Daniel who cared, Daniel who she cared for. And there was James, who she knew almost nothing about, but wanted to. "Either way you choose, you cannot win," she mused. Come September, she was going to have to choose either to go home, or… or she could stay here… "What's the matter with you, Amélie?" she scolded herself. _Stay here, just for Daniel?_ No. No, she couldn't. She wouldn't… Would she? Would Daniel even want her?

"Fuck it all," she muttered, reaching to the lower drawer of her night stand and pouring a small amount of laudanum into the glass of water on the top of the drawers. "Bottoms up." She downed the glass and let the mixture swallow her up into the blackness of sleep.

One floor beneath her, Erik was looking at his own assortment of mixtures, things he had not touched since his time in Persia. The more he tried to know the firey blonde who had fallen into his life, the more he felt sure he wanted her to stay.

Everything was… simpler with Amélie. She was a guide, a different kind of angel than he'd expected to ever be in his life. _Amélie_, _industrious._ An apt descriptor, but then, so was _Bridget_, meaning _powerful _and_ bright._

"You're still only a smouldering flame, Amélie," he whispered, running his finger along a purple phial. "How can you possibly burn as brightly as you should in only six months?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 29, 2011<em>**

"_WHAT_?!"

"Jim, calm down." Alex tried to sooth his friend.

"Don't tell me to calm down! Are you seriously trying to say that Amélie _dies_?!" James demanded. "AND DON'T CALL ME JIM!"

"They probably just needed an explanation for her disappearance," Alicia said reasonably.

"This article says she died _three days before_ she's due back. Explain that."

"Tol' ya…" Julie slurred from the corner, where she was nursing a bottle of absinthe. "We ain' never gonna see Ammy 'gain…"

"JULIE, SHUT UP!" everyone shouted.

"Fuckyouall," she mumbled, tipping back the bottle again.

"That's it!" Alex slammed his hand down on the table. "We're done, Julie. Completely done."

"Wha?"

"I'm. Breaking. Up. With. You."

"Wha? Alex, no!"

"Alex, yes." the blond Irishman said firmly. "I have had it with you. You are a selfish, spoiled, conceited little brat. I've looked past it because you _can_ be sweet, and because you're the hottest piece of ass I've ever had, but this is the final straw. Amélie's your best mate, and the fact that you're willing to just give up on her, then I don't want anything more to do with you. Now, give it." He held out his hand, and Julie's eyes widened in horror.

"You don't mean…"

"The necklace, Harris. Now."

"Fine! It was cheap anyway! I'm going home to Laxey!" Julie shouted, yanking the heart-shaped locket off her neck and throwing it at Alex, who caught it nimbly. "Good riddance to all of you!" she muttered, storming past and slamming the door behind her as she walked out on them. For what felt like an eternity, the remaining members of the group sat silently.

"To hell with her," Alex said emphatically, striding over to the balcony.

"Alex, what are you doing?"

"Sealing the deal before I renege and try to get her to take me back," Alex answered, opening the door, pulling his arm back, and hurling the necklace into the Seine. Alicia's eyes widened. "She's right, it only cost me five quid at a crappy carnival. But it was special."

"Alex, I…"

"Don't try to make me feel better, Alicia."

"Weren't you thinking of proposing to her?" James asked in disbelief.

"Roommates before hot dates," Alex quoted their university motto. "Amélie needs us. All of us. I'm not giving up on that stubborn girl, and neither should you, especially if you love her the way I think you do. For all I rag on her, Jim, Amélie's one hell of a girl. The kind you deserve."

"I'll go make some more hot chocolate…" Alicia mumbled.

"Hey, hey, you're one hell of a girl, too, little Miss Bailey." James said, opening his arms to hug her. "Amélie doesn't hang out with just anyone."

"Oi! Am I getting in on this?" Alex demanded, wrapping his lanky arms around both of them. It felt warm, but still somehow empty. There were still pieces missing and they all knew it.

* * *

><p>Authoress here! I'm going to wrap up the chapter here, and yes, I know it seems like I'm really meddling with time. I'm mainly going with the "wibbly wobbly timey wimey" theory, and the setup of the <em>Back to the Future<em> trilogy. I only ever saw part three of that, but from what I understood, actions in the past can continuously be changing the future. Yeah, first time with time travel… I'm trying.


	15. It Hurts So Much

**_March 4, 1882_**

For once in her life, Amélie was grateful that she and Meg were never offstage at the same time. The flaxen haired ballerina had been throwing her glances all day, looks that clearly demanded an explanation. And now, at the end of the day, she'd managed a full evasion by hanging near Roger, Jerome, and Emmeline and talking about the blocking for _Aïda_. "So, we can stay late tomorrow to work on Act Two…" Amélie trailed off as she saw the figure by the doors.

"Amélie, is everything alright?" Emmeline asked in alarm. "You look like you were seeing the Phantom's face."

"I should hope nothing's wrong with my little sister, not when you open tomorrow." Erik stepped into the light, his bandages readjusted to cover only part of his face and strands of hair peeking out in places. He was resting most of his weight on a sleek black cane with a gold top.

"Er… Bastien!" Amélie squeaked, managing to catch her slip. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at home!"

Erik strode towards her, maintaining a limp in his left leg as he went. "I got bored of the wheelchair. I tried standing, and it worked. I took a few steps and it worked. It's not a full paralysis, it's only my leg."

"Of course it is," Amélie muttered as Erik turned his attention to the others.

"Emmeline, Jerome, Roger, this is my brother, Bastien."

"Mademoiselle D'Arnais," Erik gave one of his charismatic little grins as he took Emmeline's hands and kissed it. "I was able to witness one of your rare performances some time ago. You have a delightful stage presence and a charming voice."  
>Emmeline's face flushed pink. "Amélie, where have you been hiding this brother of yours? I quite like him!"<p>

"He was supposed to be resting at home," Amélie answered testily. "God knows no one ever listens to me…"

"Feisty little thing, isn't she?" Erik chortled, ruffling Amélie's hair in a way that caused several of her blonde curls to drop out of her coif. Amélie gave him a look of pure loathing that the others clearly took for a standard brother-sister relationship.

"I enjoy it, though," Roger replied brightly. "I'd like that kind of spirit in my child, were I ever to have one."

"Roger, if you want children so bad, just go home and stick it in Violette a few times every night," Jerome said cheekily. Roger slapped him upside the head. "Well, that's the way to do it!"

"I'm fully aware of that, Jerome. That was to remind you that there are ladies present." the older man scolded. "A little caution with your language, please."

"Well, I'm relieved my sister knows at least two people who have a sense of decorum in this company," Erik joked, giving Jerome a rather pointed look. The young tenor hung his head dejectedly until Emmeline stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Come along, then, Amélie." Erik tugged at her arm. "I thought we might eat at the bistro tonight, give you a break from cooking."

"I don't mind—"

"Let's talk about it on the way home," he said with more force, pulling her along. "Good evening, all."

"Emmeline, don't forget, we're working late tomorrow!" Amélie called over her shoulder as Erik steered her out the door.

"Practice room three, I'll be waiting," Emmeline called back, the doors closing on them. The minute they were alone, Amélie whirled on Erik.

"I thought we agreed, you stay indoors, you don't attract attention."

"If you're free to do as you like, then I should be too," he snapped. "I know how to be discreet, Amélie, I can make it around Paris without being arrested."

"I'm not paying the bail if you do."

"If I did get caught, you'd most likely be taken in too, as my accomplice."

"I'd tell everyone you were impersonating my brother."

"And when it's revealed there is no Bastien Cammelle?"

"British," she replied.

"You seem to think that's the way to get around everything."

"It is. Anyway, there's Brits who are named Sebastian, my prom escort had that name."

"Prom?" Erik repeated.

"It's a dance."

"Amélie!" The arguing pair turned to see Daniel sticking his head out of his carriage. "Do you need a ride home. Is this man harassing you?" Erik's eyes began to flash, that odd colour that had haunted Amélie's nightmares for weeks on end. Slowly, deliberately, he made his way down the steps until he and Daniel were eye to eye.

"I don't care if you are a marquis, _nothing_ gives you the right to address my sister so informally," he growled, using his free hand to grab the collar of Daniel's coat. "If you wanted to see her, you should have come to me first. If I see anything about the two of you in the papers again without hearing it from either of you first, I will see to it that your handsome little face will not stay that way. Do you understand me?" Daniel nodded meekly.

"Sebastien, that's enough!" Amélie yelled, running down the stairs after him. "Let go of him! Let go this instant!" After a moment, Erik exhaled and released his grip on Daniel's collar.

"I don't understand, you said your brother—"

"I thought he was," grumbled Amélie. "But he seems to think otherwise."

"I told you, I'm fine," Erik muttered.

"You're still going home."

"You're coming with me, little mam'selle. We have several things to discuss."

"I can give you a ride—"

"Not necessary."

"You're being rude," Amélie chided him.

"Come on." Erik hissed. "Now." Amélie made a face, but followed him, pausing briefly to look back at Daniel, who was wearing the mournful expression of a puppy being denied its favourite chew toy. She mouthed an apology before Erik's grip tightened. The 'siblings' journeyed home in very tense silence, until they reached the door.

"I'm not going in." Amélie said stiffly.

"You don't have anywhere else to go. And you'll freeze outside."

"I'm sure there's at least one empty bed in the dormitories."

"Amélie, please, don't be difficult," he said, gritting his teeth. "I am trying not to lose my temper. Now, get in the house."

"No."

"Amélie Cammelle, I mean it. Get in the house."

"So do I. No."

"Bridget O'Hara, get in the house this minute," he growled.

"Oh, using real names, now, are we, _Erik_?" she hissed back. "So, tell me something, what would you do if Christine—" He slapped her. Not nearly as roughly as he had back in January, but enough that she was sure it'd leave a mark for a few hours.

"Never mention her again. Never. All the 'what if' questions are pointless. She's gone, Amélie. She chose him."

"She chose _you_!"Amélie countered. "And _you_ chose to let her go. You chose to do the right thing. A caged bird only sings because it's begging for its freedom."

"Stop it."

"No. No, you need to hear this, you can't keep bottling up this anger, or you're going to keep having these…." she groped around for the proper word. "These outbursts! Because I'm the one who always ends up getting hurt! Ugh, Sigmund Freud would have a field day with you…"

"Who?"

"Oh, that's right, he's only just started out… Sigmund Freud is considered the father of modern psychology, he was a genius in his field. He could fix you up."

"I don't need fixing," Erik muttered sullenly, unlocking the door and entering the house.

"All right, I guess 'fix' was a poor choice of words," Amélie conceded, following him inside. "But the point stands. You need a therapist, and I'm not qualified."

"I'm fine."

"Fine. There's a useless word if ever I heard one," Amélie scoffed. "It's such a lie. It's always a lie. You think I haven't seen what you're doing at night? The sneaking around?" She strode over to his desk and yanked it open. "The drugs?"

"It's not what you think, Amélie. Those are very potent substances, I haven't used them since I was in Persia."

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

"It's true!" he protested. "I do not!"

"Prove it," she challenged. "Smash them in the fireplace."

"Absolutely not, that could blow up the house."

"Excuses, excuses."

"Go to your room before I feel the urge to slap you again."

"Oh, so now, you're threatening me."

"I never said that."

"You just threatened to hit me."

"I told you to leave so that I would not hit you."

"Please, just do as I ask, without fighting? Just this once?"

"I've done it before."

"Then do it again." Erik pointed up the stairs. "Please." Amélie gave him one more scowl before flouncing upstairs, and slammed her door behind her for good measure.

Would it have killed him to let her be the one in charge for a while, seeing as she'd spent months being his demented little servant? It was just so unfair! Why had she been the one stuck here? Alicia would have swooned at the mere prospect, and Julie would have gone along with it, if only to see if she could get in his pants, as something to hold over Alicia.

Amélie had just removed her dress and frame when a tap sounded at her window. She ignored it, thinking it a bird, until a second tap followed. And another. "_Amélie_!" a voice hissed outside. She turned to see a silhouette outlined in her curtains. "Amélie, open the window! It's Daniel!"

"Daniel?" she whispered, pulling aside the curtains. Daniel grinned at her from behind the glass. "What on earth are you doing here?" she asked, opening the window.

"I wanted to see you," he answered, smiling warmly as he climbed through.

"How on earth did you get up here?" Amélie demanded in alarm, grabbing her robe from the closet and covering up her chemise, petticoats, and corset.

"I climbed the vine on the wall. I needed to tell you something."

"If Bastien catches us—"

"He left a few minutes ago. We'll be fine. Will you please listen to me?"

"Whatever it is, please say it quickly, I don't want you to get hurt."

"If you insist." Daniel took a deep breath and looked straight into her eyes. "I love you." Amélie felt her heart stop, just for an instant. "Amélie, are you all right? You've gone pale."

"I'm fine," she whispered, using the word she'd told Erik she detested. "I'm perfectly fine." And before she could stop herself, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him more deeply than she ever had before. Daniel responded easily, reciprocating with the right amount of passion and tenderness. She pulled away, sobbing. "Daniel, it hurts… make it stop hurting…"

"What's wrong, what hurts?" he asked gently, smoothing her hair away from her face. "Tell me what's wrong, _ma chérie_."

"My heart," she gasped. "My heart, it hurts so much… And I don't know what to do anymore. I'm lost, Daniel. I'm so, so lost…"

"It's all right, I'm here… I've got you. I've found you." He pulled her into his arms, picking her up easily and setting her on her bed. "Don't worry."

"Don't go..." she whispered, clutching at him tightly.

"I'll stay as long as you need me," he promised, sitting beside here, and continuing to hold her close. Slowly, her sobs slowed, and her eyelids lowered in sleep.

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 5, 1882<em>**

Amélie awoke to find herself alone, still lying on top of her sheets, and in her underclothes and robe. "Oh..." she mumbled.

"You'd better get up and moving if you want to make it to work on time," Erik warned from the doorway. Amélie winced a little at the icy tone in his voice.

"Have I done something wrong?"

"You tell me." He held up a small slip of white paper. She stood and walked over, taking it from him gingerly.

_Amélie,_ she read_, I left about an hour after you fell asleep. Don't worry, your brother didn't see me. If you're not busy, I thought we might be able to meet for luncheon. I can reserve a private room at a café near the opera, so no one sees us. I wanted to ask you something. I've enclosed the address below, and hope that I will see you at noon, or so._

_Until then, I remain,_

_Yours,_

_Daniel_  
>"He was in your room?" Erik asked accusingly.<p>

"Nothing happened," Amélie assured him brusquely, opening her wardrobe and selecting a blouse, jacket and skirt.

"The note suggests otherwise."

"He climbed up to my window, he told me he loved me, I started crying, he calmed me down and stayed a while after I slept. We did not sleep together. I am still a virgin. So calm down."

"Calm down?" Erik repeated incredulously as she passed by him, tucking her blouse into her skirt. "If anyone saw him—"

"Really, Erik, I don't think paparazzi is that advanced yet." Amélie scoffed, pulling on her jacket. "Never mind about breakfast, I'll just grab something from the bakery on my way to work."

"Amélie, this is getting serious."

"Let me deal with my own life."

"I don't think you can. You should be focusing on your career."

"A career I never wanted!" she protested, stomping down the stairs and haphazardly rearranging her curls into a new style. "All the same, I'll be back late tonight. I'm rehearsing all of the scenes Aïda and Amneris have together with Emmeline."

"If you're not back by nine, I'm calling the Sûreté."

"You do that." Amélie shoved her feet into her boots and hurriedly laced them up. "Goodbye."

"Don't you dare—" She slammed the door in direct defiance of him.

* * *

><p>Author's note: I've been told repeatedly that I've made Erik too 'tame' and 'compliant.' I guess they're right, but I thought Erik might be able to mellow out. He does still have his occasional flashes of ANGRY ERIK, though, as I hope I demonstrated.<p> 


	16. Love Makes Us Sick

_**March 6, 1882**_

"Are you nervous?" Emmeline asked, readjusting her black wig. Amélie nodded as she outlined her eyes in black kohl.

"It feels odd playing a Nubian princess, when I look like this," she pointed to her pale arms.

"Oh, Amélie, it's opera, it doesn't require realism. Did I tell you about when we did Hannibal?"

"The day when Christine took over for Carlotta?"

"Yes. Do either of them look Carthaginian? My point is, no one really has a problem with playing different races, Amélie. You shouldn't either. Relax, you're going to be wonderful."

"I hope so… I mean, it's Aïda! This is one of the greatest operas ever written!"

"And you've been practicing like a mad woman." Emmeline soothed gently, sliding on her gold bracelets. "I'd be surprised if you don't get a standing ovation. Or two."

"I honestly think I'm going to vomit."

"You will not." promised Emmeline. "Come on, we need to get to places."

Amélie didn't remember what happened for the next four acts. But she must have done something right, because suddenly, she had found herself backstage with Emmeline and Jerome hugging her tightly.

"Did I do something?" she squeaked.

"You were incredible!" Jerome declared, spinning them both around so that his head covering fell off. "Absolutely _magnifique_! The two most talented women in all of Paris! Go on, Emmeline, you're up!" Emmeline nodded and kissed him once before running out to the stage and bowing alongside Roger. Jerome replaced his headdress, ran on after them, bowed, and then turned to gesture backstage.

"Come on, legs, move," Amélie muttered to herself, forcing her feet to move. The bright lights hit her full on in the face, along with the roar of the audience. She stood in the centre of the stage, immobile for what felt like forever. And then, just as Christine had taught her, she crossed her hands over her chest, and sank down, sliding one foot behind her. Every single person in the audience rose, cheering her name over and over.

"_Amélie! Amélie! Amélie!_" The loudest calls of her name came from Box Five, which Daniel had procured for himself and Erik, despite Madame Giry's protests. She turned to her right and bowed again, smiling at them as she rose. Erik had remained seated, but a look of undeniable pride was on his face. Daniel's excitement was far more visible, so eager and earnest, Amélie was surprised he hadn't jumped out of the box as she turned right, and acknowledged Larocque. Once that was done, she stepped back to join the rest of the cast and bowed with them. As the cheers continued, she got a vague idea and lifted her right hand to gesture to Reyer and the pit. For a moment, Jerome and Emmeline stared at her, but they followed suit, as did the rest of the company. Reyer nearly dropped his baton, but he turned outward and bowed to the audience anyway. Slowly, the company drew back, the curtain fell. And it was done.

"What was that all about?" Emmeline asked.

"I just thought he deserved some acknowledgement." Amélie shrugged. "He works just as hard as we do, if not harder."

"She does have a point," Roger said, grabbing Jerome by the arm. "Come on, all of you, we should be changing for the party."

"I hate these parties," complained Emmeline. "It's all flattering the patron and boring small talk."

"At least you're not all but engaged to our patron, _chérie_." Jerome soothed her.

"Oi!" Amélie hissed. "I'm within earshot."

"Has the Marquis been courting you since you met in February?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Amélie, people are talking, you have to face that fact." Emmeline warned, leading her back to their dressing room. "With the amount of time you spend together, it's only natural to assume that the two of you might be getting more serious about your relationship."

"Well, we're not." Amélie lied as she removed her costume and wig and started scrubbing the makeup off her face. "We're seeing each other out of mutual interest, nothing more."

"Mutual interest?" Emmeline repeated, pulling out their dresses. "You make it sound like a business transaction."

"So what?" Amélie asked callously, accepting her dress from Emmeline. It was a red silk, covered with sparkling black lace and beading, a design she'd copied from _The Unquiet Dead_ on _Doctor Who_. "I don't see any problem with it."

"Did you see how he looked at you tonight? He's in love with you, any fool could see that."

"Are you calling me a fool?" Amélie demanded shrilly.

"No, of course I'm not!"

"Emmeline—"

"Amélie, if you don't have feelings for him, you shouldn't keep seeing him! It's leading him on, and it will only cause him pain later!"

"You think I don't know that? I can't bear to cause him pain, Emmeline, it's like trying to send away a droopy-eyed puppy!"

"You love him, too," murmured Emmeline.

"What?!" Amélie squawked in alarm. "I do not!"

"Yes, you do."

"Emmeline, please, I don't to talk about it anymore."

"Amélie… I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well, you did," Amélie snapped, pulling her dress up around her and twisting her arms to do the buttons along the back. "So just, please, stop talking to me." In the mirror, she saw Emmeline open her mouth, and then close it again before turning to put on her own dress.

The moment Amélie slid out of the dressing room, she was mobbed by several men in evening dress.

"—a dance—"

"—if you have a—"

"—who you studied—"

"—Give her some space!" Daniel's voice came through clear and strong. "Gentlemen, please, let her breathe." The men cleared a path through to her, allowing him to approach her.

"D… Monsieur le Marquis," she bobbed a curtsy. "Bastien!" she ran to meet Erik, nearly knocking him over and making him drop his cane.

"Amélie!" he laughed, wrapping his arms around her and leaning against her. "You did wonderfully, little sister. Our parents would be proud of you."

"Thank you," she said, carefully bending down to retrieve his cane. "I'm glad you liked it. I'm glad you could see it."

"Miss Cammelle, if I might have a word?" Amélie felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Larocque beaming at her. "I just wanted to say that you have sold yourself short. You are an extraordinary performer. You're right be quite proud of her, Monsieur Cammelle."

"Henri, please, you can call me Bastien. Now, would you tell me more about what's coming within the next season, I'm quite…" Amélie didn't hear what else Erik said, as he turned Larocque towards the table of hors d'oeuvres.

"What was that about?" Daniel demanded, grabbing her arm. "You've never minded calling me Daniel before."

"Well, I don't think we should be so public anymore," she answered. "It's giving people the wrong idea."

"Wrong? What's wrong with it? We're seeing each other, aren't we?"

"Daniel, you might be willing to admit your feelings, but I don't have that kind of confidence. I certainly don't want everyone knowing it."

"Then what you're saying—"

"Is that we need to take some time off from seeing each other."

"Are you joking?" Daniel asked, his voice sounding strangled.

Amélie hesitated for a moment, then laughed. "Of course I am! You should have seen the look on your face, though!"

"Never do that to me again," he warned. "And now, my saucy little diva, you're going to have to spend the rest of the evening by my side as an apology."

"Gladly," she agreed, looping her arm through his. "Just keep me away from the champagne, you know how I am."

"Indeed I do," Daniel agreed, kissing her cheek. Several cameras flashed, capturing the moment. Amélie cursed internally. Erik was going to kill her when they got home for sure…

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 7, 1882<em>**

Erik poked his head into Amélie's room to find her vomiting into her washbasin. "Too much to drink, little lark?" he asked dryly. Amélie gave him a dirty look and mumbled something incoherent before throwing up again. "You should take a day off, you're clearly not feeling well. And rehearsals for The Magic Flute don't start until tomorrow."

"Shuddup," she grumbled, thrusting the basin at him. "An' gemme a new one."

"Please," he reminded her. She hissed, baring her teeth like an angry cat. "Oh, very well, I'll do it. But you're staying home."

"Nuuuuuuu!" she whined. "I wanna go!"

"You're not going, and that's final," he said firmly. "Now, get back into bed."

"Dun wanna."

"Amélie, you are extremely hungover and in no condition to go anywhere. If you continue to resist, I'm going to have to drug you."

"Up yours…" she moaned, crawling under the sheets. "I'm never comin' out…"

"That would be the alcohol talking." Erik chuckled grimly. "I'll be back before you know it. I'll get you a new basin, and tell Larocque you're indisposed for today, but you'll be there for tonight's performance." A string of garbled profanities dropped out of Amélie's mouth, but she nodded. "And no more drinking."

"Done," came the reply from the lump of sheets.

* * *

><p>AN: Happy holidays, everyone!


	17. A Change in Strategy

**_March 8, 1882_**

"You're in a bad mood," Meg observed as Amélie came through the door. "Still feeling your hangover?"

"As bad as I am with champagne, I neglected to tell Daniel that I'm even worse with cognac," replied Amélie. "And I thought you weren't speaking to me."

"I'm still cross with you, but I'm not going to let that keep going. I just want answers. Why didn't you tell me about you and Daniel?"

"Because I didn't think there was going to be a 'Daniel and me.' Honestly, I didn't. It just… happened."

"Emmeline says you love him."

"I don't know that."

"What is there to not know? You spend every available moment with him." Meg pointed out, pulling herself onto her toes and spinning. "You and Christine both, snatching up the best men in Paris. Ugh, I hate you!"

"Oh, we both know that's not true."

"You're taking me shopping as an apology." Meg warned.

"Agreed. Bastien's the one who'll be paying, anyway." Both girls giggled at the thought.

"What's your brother like, anyway? I tried to talk to him, at the party, but I didn't get a chance. He kept talking to Larocque."

"Yes, well, Bastien's like that." Amélie's eyes widened. "Oh my God, Meg, please tell me you weren't going to flirt with him."

"No! Of course not… well, maybe a little."

"My brother? Oh, no! Meg, just… no… He's… he's not available."

"Oh, come on! Am I allowed to have anyone to myself?" Meg whined.

"You can have anyone in Paris, except my brother and Daniel. And Jerome, because Emmeline would kill you otherwise."

"Of course I would." Emmeline called from the hallway that led to the practice rooms. "Amélie, you and Jerome are wanted for the trials scenes. I'm working with Roger and Carolus. Meg, your mother wants you."

"Rehearsals, always rehearsals," Meg grumbled, walking off towards the practice rooms. "And I _hate_ German opera. No proper dancing in it."

"Why is she complaining?" Emmeline asked as she and Amélie headed to the practice rooms. "I'm the one who has to sing coloratura, which I haven't done for almost nineteen seasons, thanks to Carlotta."

"Well, that's just wizard," Amélie said in English.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh…. I stopped speaking French, didn't I?"

"Yes. What did you say?"

"I said that's too bad."

* * *

><p><em>In September of 1908, a small novel circulated around France, based on true events that had occurred at the Paris Opera. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, written by Gaston Leroux, would have faded into obscurity had it not been for director Carl Laemmle's 1925 silent film adaptation, starring Lon Chaney, Sr., Mary Philbin, and Norman Kerry. Since then, the Phantom's legend has been adapted countless times, most famously in Andrew Lloyd Webber's famed musical, which this year celebrates its twenty-fifth year running in London's famed West End. But what is the true depth of what passed in the arches of the Palais Garnier, a structure that resembles a train station from the outside, and a Turkish bath inside, to paraphrase Claude Debussy?<em>

_I was graciously granted permission to explore the vaults that are believe to have been the Phantom's hideaway, but I found far more than my expectations—_

A knock sounded at the door, and Erik quickly returned the journal to its original hiding place, grabbed his cane, and made his way to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming." When he opened the door, Daniel d'Angennes-Poigny was standing in front of him. The young nobleman's features were visibly tight and stressed, his face blanched white. "Monsieur le Marquis. I thought you'd be hanging around the Opera house waiting for my sister to finish with the morning's rehearsals so you could take her out to luncheon. Again."

"Monsieur Cammelle, I know you don't like me, but—"

"Come inside, please." Erik stepped aside to allow him entry. "I will not have the papers label me an ungracious host."

"Oh… yes, of course." Daniel followed him inside. "Thank you."

"First time you've seen the house apart from Amélie's bedroom, I believe?" Erik asked, taking a small amount of satisfaction as Daniel's ears turned bright red. "She's assured me nothing's happened, and I believe her. Would you care for something to drink? I think it's a little early for liquor, but you might disagree."

"Tea, if you have it, please."

"Of course I have tea, do I look like a barbarian to you?" Daniel made a face. "That was a joke, Monsieur le Marquis."

"Would you please call me Daniel, Monsieur Cammelle? I don't like to stand on the formality of my title, I find it a nuisance."

"Very well, Daniel." Erik moved the kettle onto the fire. "Please. Sit down. I'll only be a moment."

"I can help, if you need me to—"

"Despite what my sister may say, I am not an invalid. I can manage myself, and I can certainly make tea on my own."

"I'm not saying you can't… Damn, this isn't going at all how I hoped." Daniel muttered.

"What's not?" Erik stopped poking at the fire to really look at Daniel. The aristocrat was rubbing his hands guiltily, twisting the gold signet on his little finger, and chewing his lower lip. "Daniel, is there something wrong?"

"It's your sister."

"Has Amélie been hurt?"

"No. No, it's not that at all. It's not Amélie, it's how I feel about her. I… I can't stop thinking about her, I can't sleep at night, and the worst part is that I don't know if she even returns what I feel for her."

"She's not exactly the ardent type," Erik agreed. "But I do not think that means she doesn't care for you. She wouldn't keep seeing you if she felt nothing."

"Forgive me if I don't share your confidence." Daniel muttered ruefully, indicating the whistling tea kettle. Erik took it off the fire, a realization forming in his head. _I want Amélie to stay here, not as my lover, but as my sister. She, however irritating she may be, has become my conscience, and I want her to stay. I can't convince her on my own, but this boy, Daniel, he can._ "Monsieur Cammelle?"

"Bastien, I think, Daniel. At the frequency with which you are seeing Amélie, we may be family soon."

"Well, yes, about that. I know all the papers are predicting I'll propose to Amélie by the end of the month, but it's not true."

"End of the week, then?" Erik joked, offering Daniel a filled tea cup.

"More likely the end of the summer. Or her contract. These things need to take time, I'm not doing it after a month. I won't do it at all if you don't approve."

"I'm disappointed. I thought you had more fight in you than that. You're going to give up on the woman you love if I say no?"

"I won't make her choose between you and me. Family isn't something you should give up. But I'd wait for her."

"Oh? How long?"

"A thousand years, if that were possible."

"I see. Well, I won't stand in the way."

"What?"

"You heard me. Why should I complain if you propose to her? It's clear you care for her, and I don't see any reason why you wouldn't make her happy. I'd be honored if you would join our family."

"Thank you!" A wide grin spread across Daniel's face, making all the worry lines vanish so that he looked his age again as he grabbed Erik's hands and shook them enthusiastically. "Thank you, you don't know how grateful I am!"

"I think I do. I know what it feels like to be in love."

"You say that as if you no longer are."

"The affections of the woman I loved lie elsewhere. Leave it at that, please."

"Of course. My sympathies."

* * *

><p>Boredboredbored. When do I go home? I hope you're all enjoying this.<p> 


	18. Répondez, S'il Vous Plaît

_**March 25, 1882**_

"I'm home!" Amélie called, closing the door behind her. "Erik?" There was no reply. "Erik!" she yelled, hurrying into his study, where he sat, clutching an envelope so tightly in his hands that they were bone white. "For God's sake, let go of that thing before you burst a vein!" she scolded, tugging it out of his hand. A familiar neat copperplate script stared up at her as he numbly released his grip.

_Mlle. Amélie Cammelle_

_Number 23, Rue Joubert_

_Paris, France_

It was Christine's handwriting. And the Chagny crest adorned the seal on the back. Gingerly, she slid her little finger under the flap and pulled away, trying to be as neat as possible. The crest broke, revealing a gold-embossed invitation in stunning calligraphy that made Amélie's hands ache just thinking about writing it.

_Phillipe Georges Marie, Comte de Chagny_

_requests the pleasure of your company_

_at the marriage of his brother,_

_Raoul Jean Marie, Vicomte de Chagny_

_to_

_Mlle. Christine Emelie Daaé_

_Saturday, May the sixth_

_The year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and eighty-two_

_three o'clock in the afternoon_

_Saint Paul's Cathedral,_

_London, England_

_Reception to follow_

"It's really happening." Erik's raspy voice made Amélie jump a little. In all the time she'd known him, he'd never sounded so broken, so utterly dejected. "She's marrying him. The boy. I've lost."

"She was never yours to lose," she murmured gently. "She's a person, Erik, not a possession."

"Don't lecture me," he warned, but the threat sounded hollow. Amélie turned the invitation over to find a letter from Christine.

_Dear Amélie,_

_I was furious with you for not writing to me, but then I remembered that I hadn't written to you either. Shame on me, I'm a horrid friend. The Royal Opera is quite a different environment from the Populaire, one I never would have expected from working with you. Everyone in the company is very stiff and unfriendly, and I get lonely quite easily. The wardrobe mistress, Mrs. Blackwell, is very kind, but it's still a far cry from home._

_I was curious to hear that no one in the company knew you, despite that being where your references are from, but then I recalled the position you were in when you first applied to the company. Please don't worry, my friend, I don't blame you for this. If anything, I am grateful that you were able to help me as much as you did._

_I pray that you'll forgive me, but I told Raoul your secret, Amélie. He deserved to know just how much you did for us. I know you don't plan to leave until September, but I wanted to make certain you were there for the wedding, especially since I want you and Meg as my bridal attendants._

_I hope to see you there, and please write to me!_

_Love,_

_Christine_

There was an address included in the postscript. Amélie looked over at Erik. "She wants me to be a bridesmaid."

"I can't escort you," Erik said firmly.

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both." Erik crumpled up a newspaper from the kindling bin and tossed it into the fire. The yellow flames gobbled it up eagerly. "See how quick fire is to consume? I love her still, Amélie. If I were to go with you, that burning within me would quickly envelope any sense I have, and drive me to do something insane. No, better that I never see her again."

"Then how am I supposed to go? I can't go alone!"

"Figure that out on your own. I am not going with you." Erik said firmly, rising from his chair. "I will not invade her life further." Amélie bit her lip, trying not to smile. So, the ridiculous sequel she'd gone through during her research was fiction after all. "And shouldn't you still be at the opera? Tonight's the final performance of _The Magic Flute_."

"I thought I'd take a nap before the show. Are you coming to see it?"

"No, I'm not in the mood for Mozart this evening."

"Are you feeling all right?" Amélie asked, coming over to feel his forehead. Erik swatted her hand away.

"Very funny, Miss Cammelle. If you came home to nap, go take one. I'll wake you ninety minutes before the show starts."

"Thank you."

* * *

><p><em><strong>September 29, 2011<strong>_

James sat on the roof of the Garnier, looking out over the city skyline. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower reached up, as if the entirety of Paris were flipping off, saying _"You think you're worthy of someone like Amélie Cammelle? Don't be a fool. She is not yours."_

"Please, tell me you're not going to jump." a woman's Irish brogue came from behind him. He turned to see…

"_Amélie_?"

"No, I'm Angelica." She ruffled her shoulder-length black curls. "Ammy's my sister."

"I didn't know she had a sister."

"It's complicated. Come away from the edge." Angelica held out her hand. "Charles does not need a lawsuit from Crawley Enterprises. Especially given how my sister's already missing. Da'll freak out."

"I'm confused." James muttered, accepting her hands to pull himself up.

"Imagine living with it. The girl I thought was my cousin is my sister, which means my parents gave away a baby, and Ammy's 'dad' is actually our uncle, and her 'uncle' is our dad."

"Can you say that again?" Angelica laughed lightly at his confusion. "Hey!"

"Hard to believe we played together as kids."

"We… _Oh. My. God._ Angel O'Hara." The bucktoothed Irish girl from daycare. The one who bit boys who made fun of her and sang in the sand box. "Wow. You got hot."

"I'm married!" she scolded, smacking him upside the head, and making both of them laugh.

"Hey, it's your twin I'm into." Angelica smacked him again. "What?!"

"Nothing, I just wanted to do that again."

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 25, 1882<strong>_

"You were amazing!" Daniel declared as Amélie stepped out of her dressing room. She laughed and wrapped her arms around him for a kiss, which he delivered happily. "Just wonderful, I can't believe Bastien missed it."

"Well, that's my brother," Amélie shrugged. "But you really liked it?"

"Of course I did!" He tweaked her nose, grinning. "Why would I lie to you?"

"You wouldn't." She smiled, rubbing her nose a little. "But that hurt."

"I won't do it again." Daniel promised. "There's something I wanted to ask you."

"Monsieur le Marquis!" Amélie squealed, putting on the poshest accent she could. "In front of all these people?"

"Oh, God, no!" Daniel laughed, his ears turning red. "Just to the wedding of a friend, this May."

"Don't tell me. Vicomte Raoul de Chagny to Mademoiselle Christine Daaé?"

"Yes, how did… you're invited, too?"

"I'm one of the bridesmaids!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"AMÉLIEEEEEEEEE!" Meg ran up behind them and Amélie disentangled herself from Daniel's arms. "Did you get the invitation? We're going to be bridesmaids, I'm so excited!"

"Meg's coming too? It'll be like we haven't left Paris at all." Daniel joked. Meg nodded in agreement.

"Except it'll smoggy, possibly rainy, crowded, and grumpy. Just like always." interjected Amélie.

"Someone doesn't sound too thrilled about going home," Daniel remarked. "What's wrong?"

"Bastien says he won't escort me."

"So, just come with me and Maman!" Meg said, as though it were the obvious thing to do. "Why's your brother not coming?"

"He doesn't like London. Never has, even when we were children." Amélie lied easily. "And after what he's been through, I'm not going to push it."

"I can respect that," Daniel mused. "When Raoul and I trained at the Ecole Navale, we saw some very… jolting things."

"In the Navy?" Meg repeated incredulously. "What could there possibly be in the navy?"

"You don't want to know," Daniel answered gravely.

"You're right, we don't." Amélie said, trying to steer the conversation away from horror stories. "So, we start performances of _La Forza Del Destino_ tomorrow."

"Yes, we do!" Meg chirped. "Tell Daniel about what you and Emmeline decided!"

"What, the alternating?" Amélie asked.

"Alternating?" Daniel echoed.

"Yes, we're taking turns playing Leonora and Curra on alternating performances. It keeps us on our feet, give the audience a reason to come see the performances multiple times, and it's actually quite fun."

"Really? It sounds fascinating." Daniel remarked. _And maybe a century too early_, Amélie thought to herself. "I'll certainly be buying tickets to two performances, now."

"You come to every show!" Meg pointed out. "Is that really a change?" Daniel's ears turned redder.

"Oh, Meg, now you've upset him!" Amélie scolded. "Shame on you!" But the little blonde had already run off. "I don't know how her mother puts up with her."

"Well, you're the only one I want to put up with," Daniel said, wrapping his arms around her again. Amélie swatted at him playfully. "We are going to the April Fool's Masque together, yes?"

"I'm going, but I'm not telling you what I'm wearing," she replied cheekily. "You'll have to find me."

"What?!"

"Just like the night we met."

"As I recall, that night was quickly interrupted by the Phantom of the Opera."

"Oh, Daniel, don't be silly, the Phantom of the Opera is not going to show up at the April Fool's Masque." _The Phantom of the Opera_, she thought,_ seems to be well and truly gone._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry I've been a little slow on the updates. My computer was out for repairs, and I couldn't access any of my files._


	19. Return to the Masque

_**April 1, 1882**_

_Well_, Amélie thought,_ the April Fool's Masque is a far cry from the New Year's one_. If she had to choose one word to compare the two, then the one she was observing now was… tamer. The ball was being held not in the grand foyer, but in one of the halls, which had been transformed into a hall of mirrors that mimicked Versailles. Everyone was wearing domino masks and white gloves, and the majority of the men were simply wearing formal evening attire with brightly lined cloaks. The women had opted for vividly patterned ball gowns, which resembled some of the costumes from New Year's, but were nowhere near as spectacular. She took a moment to herself and smoothed down her own dress. Having friends obsessed with dragging her to every Broadway show on the planet was suddenly paying off, because she'd based this one on Belle's gold gown from Beauty and the Beast, and it made her feel stunning.

Returning her attention to the dancers before her, she noticed a familiar square jaw and thick black hair framing the mask of a man dressed as a Hussar soldier. Daniel, she thought gleefully, weaving her way around the edge of the room. Daniel seemed to notice her too, but someone caught her by the arm. She turned to see a man dressed all in black, and wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. "Oh, bloody hell," she grumbled in English. "It's you, isn't it?"

"Sharp as ever, Amélie," Erik's voice came from behind the mask, echoing slightly.

"Why that costume?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why a man who tried to blow up the British Parliament? It's not like you could've possibly read _V for Vendetta_."

"I am intrigued by what _V for Vendetta_ is, but no. I simply was trying to find an appropriate costume."

"You stick out like a sore thumb."

"You look lovely."

"Flattery is not going to get you anywhere," she warned. "What the hell are you even doing here?"

"Attending a masquerade," Erik answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I can see that. But why?"

"Am I not allowed to go out and enjoy myself every once in a while?"

"Given what happened at the last masquerade we attended, I don't think this is the right kind of place for you to be enjoying yourself."

"Pardon me, monsieur, may I steal Miss Cammelle for this next dance?" Daniel interrupted, poking his head in between the two of them.

"Gladly." Amélie took his hand. "Rescue me from my brother." Daniel chuckled as he whirled her into the dance. "You are an angel."

"High praise indeed," he grinned at her. "Are things all right at home?"

"Er…" Amélie made a face. Things had been tense ever since the invitation had come from Christine. "It's complicated."

"Anything I can help with?"

"I could use a breath of fresh air," she answered, giving him a cheeky wink. "Follow me." Using the chaos of the dance, the two of them wove their way across the floor and hurried out the nearest pair of doors and towards one of the open windows. Amélie could smell the rain in the grass from the shower that had fallen earlier that day. "Ahhh…. It smells like Hyde Park."

"Is that in London?"

"Mhmmm," she nodded. "If we have some free time either before or after the wedding, I'll show it to you."

"That sounds nice." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, letting her lean into him. "I'd like very much to see all of London with you."

"I think there are some parts we could skip," Amélie muttered, racking her brain. _I don't think Jack the Ripper is active yet, but we should still stay out of Whitechapel. And Portobello Road._

"Amélie! Don't drift off!" Daniel scolded. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"I know you better than that. Tell me what's wrong."

"Daniel, it's nothing for you to worry about, I promise."

"Then it is something you think you can worry about on your own?" Amélie didn't respond. "Whatever it is, you don't have to deal with it by yourself."

"Yes, I do. This isn't something you can help me with."

"Tell me, at least."

"I think we should go back inside."

"Amélie, please—"

"Before anyone notices we're gone." She detached from his embrace and headed back into the hall. Meg noticed her and hurried across the rooms. "Meg, I know I always make you promise not to let me drink, but I might need to ask you to make an exception tonight."

"Did you and Daniel fight?" Meg asked, raising her mask to look at Amélie clearly. "Is everything all right?"

"I just wish he didn't think he always has to take care of me. I can take care of myself!"

"You still live with your brother."

"Hmph. You live with your mother," Amélie retorted, plucking two flutes of champagne from one of the passing servers and downing each in one very unladylike gulp after the other. "I'mma go dance with somebody…Oooh, I wanna dance with somebody… I wanna feel the heat with somebody… Oooh, I wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me…"

"You didn't let her drink, did you?" Erik's voice came as things began to get hazy. Meg said something Amélie didn't understand, since she was too busy tripping over her own feet. "That's it, little mam'selle, we're going home."

"Masqueraaaaaaaaaaaaade…." Amélie sang drunkenly, swinging her arms wildly and falling backwards into his arms. "Whoopsie!"

"You'll have to excuse her. Give my sincerest apologies to Monsieur le Marquis, will you, Miss Giry?"

"Of course."

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 30, 1882<strong>_

Amélie stood on the bow railing of the Calliope, catching the spray in her face. Maybe it was homesickness, but she felt as though she could already smell the chalky cliffs of Dover. Looking around to make sure no one was around, she yanked the pins from her hair, punched the air, and, using an American accent, yelled, "I'M KING OF THE WORLD! WOOOOOOOO!"

"Amélie, what the hell are you doing? You'll fall!" she turned to see Daniel standing a few feet behind her.

"Come up here with me, and I won't." He scowled, and she pouted in response. "Don't say you're still cross with me for what happened at the masquerade. I told you, I'm sorry."

"Come down from there."

"No, you come up."

"You're absolutely mad."

"Please, Daniel. I'll tell you what's bothering me, if you do." He stood for a moment, considering the offer, then climbed up on the railing and wrapped his arms around her. "There, see. We're flying."

"It's amazing," he breathed, burying his face in her hair. "But you still need to tell me."

Damn, Amélie thought, racking her brain for a proper explanation. "It's… It's us, Daniel. I know you love me. And I… I love you, too." The minute the words left her mouth, she felt as though she'd just shed a fifty pound backpack. "Oh my God, I love you," she whispered again, feeling tears stream down her face.

"Easy, easy!" Daniel lowered them both down onto the deck and drew her into his arms. "Why is that a problem?"

"Because… you need to trust me—"

"Why wouldn't I trust—"

"No, not like that." She brought a finger to his lips. "Listen before you say anything. Listen to everything. Can you do that?" Daniel nodded. "I'm leaving Paris when my contract ends. It's already been decided. And when I do, it will be for good. I won't be coming back ever again."

"Then I'll come with you."

"I don't know that you can." Amélie replied, but his remark tugged at her thoughts. _What if he could come with me?_

"Why couldn't I?"

"I can't tell you."

"Amélie."

"I want you to come with me, I just don't know if you can!" she protested. "It's… something I'd have to discuss with Bastien."

"Then you're still keeping secrets from me." Daniel released his hold on her. "You don't trust me."

"Of course I trust you." Amélie wrapped her hands around his. "And I want to tell you. But I can't. Not yet. It has to be your decision."

"What does that mean?"

"You decide," she answered vaguely, releasing her grip. "We should go inside, before it rains on us. British weather is maddeningly unpredictable."

"I love you," Daniel murmured, helping her to her feet.

"I love you, too." She kissed him deeply. "If nothing else, believe that."

"I do."

* * *

><p>AN: So, for anyone who's curious, the wedding's going to happen next chapter!


	20. Making a Promise

_**April 30, 1882**_

Erik sat in front of the fire, reexamining the telegram he'd just received from Amélie.

_Dear Bastien STOP_

_We made our ferry, the Calliope, safely, and are on our way to England STOP. Daniel and I have managed to smooth things over STOP. England is its usual rainy self STOP. I miss you, and will see you in approximately one week STOP._

_Your sister, Amélie STOP_

So, they'd reconciled. That was good. He was surprised that Amélie even remembered the masquerade. When they'd come home that night, he'd had to spend the better part of an hour calming her down while she danced around the room singing the most ridiculous songs he'd ever heard before having to drug her. Daniel hadn't been over to see Amélie in the four weeks since the masquerade, and apparently, they hadn't gone on any outings since then either.

They hadn't even spoken to one another on the train ride, which had made conversations with either of them incredibly difficult. He still wasn't even certain of why Mme. Giry had asked him to accompany them on the train ride from Paris to Calais. For a trip that Meg had been chattering about, the journey had been deadly silent, and his return alone even more so. It had been a time for reflection, if nothing else. No one had wanted to disturb the wounded soldier in a private compartment paid for by a marquis.

He'd heard music in his mind for the first time in what must have been an eternity. Nothing on the grand scale of _Don Juan_, just a simple wordless lullaby. Perhaps he'd make a music box that played it for Amélie. Something to replace the monkey he'd left in the vaults. The music kept him company for the remainder of the journey, all the way back to the house. With Amélie in London, he could get back to reading what he'd started in her journal. Sure enough, she's left it hidden in the desk, with only a simple lock that was easy enough that he could pick it in his sleep. Once it was open, he turned to the page where it had last been, the one that Amélie had clearly turned to the most frequently.

_In September of 1911, a small novel circulated around France, based on true events that had occurred at the Paris Opera. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, written by Gaston Leroux, would have faded into obscurity had it not been for director Carl Laemmle's 1925 silent film adaptation, starring Lon Chaney, Sr., Mary Philbin, and Norman Kerry. Since then, the Phantom's legend has been adapted countless times, most famously in Andrew Lloyd Webber's beloved musical, which this year celebrates its twenty-fifth year running in London's famed West End. But what is the true depth of what passed in the arches of the Palais Garnier, a structure that resembles a train station from the outside, and a Turkish bath inside, to paraphrase Claude Debussy?_

_I was graciously granted permission to explore the vaults that are believe to have been the Phantom's hideaway, but I found far more than my expectations. In many ways, the Phantom is both less and more than the legends of him, but one fact remains undeniably true. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra vraiment existé. He did indeed feel the most intense desire for life and for love, and he saw his escape in the young soprano, Christine Daaé._

_I will spare you all a synopsis of the plot, because I am certain you know it in one form or another, and offer my commentary on the novel. It is no Les Misérables, that's for certain. Leroux, unlike his more famous countrymen, had a very factual and analytical style of writing, which I, as a journalist, very much appreciate. He approached the story as a mystery to be uncovered by the reader as the characters did. There was very little grand romanticism or wordy travelogues about Parisian sewers and the like. There has never been a particularly faithful adaptation to the original novel since the 1925 silent film, mainly due to the fact that Leroux's original story did not emphasize what the public wanted: A hopeless romance, a doomed love. People were infatuated with the idea of a monstrous man so in love with a beautiful young woman, that all later adaptations would focus more on the love triangle than the original had._

_Of course, this story is more than a simple fairy tale about a prince, a princess, and a monster. As such, any adaptation of this work already has an immense task ahead of it, because they must have something that makes their adaptation unique. This may come in the form of a modernization, such as Brian dePalma's The Phantom of the Paradise, or a relocation, such as the adaptation starring Maximilian Schell and set in Hungary, or simply a rather innovative version of the Phantom's disfigurement, as utilised in the Charles Dance miniseries._

_Blah-blah-blah, insert review of 25th here, talk about musical's legacy here…._

_And now, I must reveal something no one else knows: who the Phantom was to me. On the night I set foot in the cellars of the opera, a very strange set of circumstances threw me thirteen decades into the past, right into the middle of the world's most famous ghost story. How can I even begin to describe a man such as the infamous Phantom? I came to know Erik as my jailer, as my mentor, and, however improbably, eventually as my friend. I will not claim that he was a good man, because when I met him, he wasn't. I bear the scars to prove that he was not about hitting a woman. When he looked at people, he did not see individuals, he saw a mass of hatred, and tools he could use to achieve his ends. When we met, he forced me into a pact with him to help him on pain of death, and it was only with double-talk that I agreed._

Her looped script stopped here, and changed to blocky print: **ERIK, IF YOU ARE READING MY JOURNAL AGAIN, I AM GOING TO GUT YOU LIKE A FISH, I SWEAR TO GOD. THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. JUST FOR THAT, I'M NOT GOING TO FINISH THE ARTICLE IN THIS. UP YOURS.**

Erik chuckled wryly. Her prose was so eloquent, and yet that little note to him was ridiculously juvenile. A perfect juxtaposition, just like Amélie herself. He read it again, absorbing her words. It was if the girl had reached into his soul and drawn out his essence, etching it into the page with tactful honesty and clarity. He could not even find it in himself to hate her for admitting that she had never intended to change his fate. She'd been right to keep things the way they were told.

But the fact that his story had lasted all those years, that people were still telling it… It was immense. It was damn near unbelievable, and remarkably gratifying. He flipped to another entry. The earlier back he went, the more her writings cursed him, particularly the entries from January to February, when he'd injured her. There were a few pages where it was clear she'd used them as communication while her tongue had healed. Some were travelogues about the things she missed, electricity, 'proper' plumbing, 'jeans,' and her friends. Amélie had clearly poured the deepest thoughts of her soul into this little leather-bound book, trusting it more than she trusted any person here.

"You continue to astound me, Amélie Cammelle," he murmured, closing the journal and returned it to its hiding place. "Just when I think I have you figured out, I find some new surprise."

* * *

><p><em>May 1, 1882<em>

Amélie tried not to squeal as the shores of England came into view. She might have been displaced thirteen decades, but home was home. "It looks so gloomy," Meg observed, leaning next to her on the railing.

"It's easier to get used to than you might think." Amélie promised, leaning into Daniel and grinning. "It's the greatest city ever." The two French natives sniffed at her statement. "Well, it is to me!"

"British people have no taste," Meg said pompously.

"I take offense at that, Miss Giry," Daniel interjected. "Seeing as that would make me a tasteless choice."

"Yes, but Amélie's half-French, which means she has some sense."

"Oy, stoppit!" Amélie snapped, speaking English with the most Cockney accent she could muster. "I'll 'ave you know I got plenny o' taste, I 'ave!" Daniel burst out laughing. "Oh, God, you can't understand me, can you?"

"Indeed, I can," he smiled. "And it's incredibly amusing whenever you start speaking English."

"Amélie, you're blushing!" Meg squealed in delight.

"Why are you so happy about it?" Amélie demanded shrilly. "That's not funny!"

"Oh, yes it is!"

"Girls!" Madame Giry barked. "Enough squabbling. We are about to dock." The group watched the shores of England draw nearer and nearer.

"Amélie, are you nervous?" Meg asked, refusing to be quiet.

"Why would I be nervous?"

"Well, we haven't seen Christine or Raoul for a long time! They may have changed."

"Three months do not change a person _that_ dramatically, Meg."

"I'm only suggesting that—"

"I realize that, but I disagree." Amélie replied, looking down at the harbor as the _Calliope_ pulled in to dock. "I've also remembered why I hate public transport."

"If I had a boat of my own, we'd have taken it, chérie."

"How do you _not_ have a boat?" Meg asked. "One of the richest men in France—"

"Who is also patron to several charities as well as the Paris Opera." Daniel interrupted. "Hence, I have a significantly smaller amount of funds than you might think. Besides, it wouldn't be very practical, seeing as I don't have anywhere to sail, really."

"Let's go ashore," Amélie suggested tactfully. "They've put out the ramp."

"May I?" Daniel bowed with an uncharacteristic flourish and offered Amélie his arm.

"Why, of course." Amélie swept him an equally flamboyant curtsy before taking his arm and descending to the dock. A very familiar couple was waiting for them. "Christine!" Amélie yelled, letting go of Daniel and running to embrace her friend, Meg hot on her heels. The three friends squealed in delight, nearly falling down as they hugged.

"Oh, I have missed you both so much," Christine gushed as they separated. "Thank you so much for coming."

"My dear Christine, we would not have missed it for the world," Madame Giry allowed a smile to split her usually severe features as she stepped off the ramp to embrace Christine herself. "Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Madame." Raoul bowed. "Daniel! Get over here, you dolt!" Daniel obliged, and hurried over. The two men embraced, laughing and grinning. It was the happiest Amélie had ever seen the surly vicomte. "From the looks of it, you already know Christine's bridesmaids."

"Though he knows Amélie better," Meg chirped impishly. "They're the talk of Paris."

"Stop it!" Amélie whined, smacking the little blonde on the arm. Christine's smile grew a little more.

"It's so good to know nothing changes."

"Yes, indeed, but can we leave that all for the train? I'm sure no one's in the mood to walk all the way to London." Raoul said, his gruff exterior back into place. "I'll get a porter for your luggage. Oh… forgive me. Daniel, this is my fiancée, Christine Daaé. Christine, may I present Daniel d'Angennes-Poigny, Mar—"

"We can stop there, Raoul. If you're going to get a porter, then go." Daniel bowed and took Christine's hand, kissing it. "Miss Daaé. Or would you prefer Christine?"

"Just Christine, if you please. It's lovely to meet you, Daniel. I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Good things or bad?"

"All good," Christine assured him. "I trust you're taking good care of my friends and the Opera House?"

"Naturally." Daniel smiled. "And I'm looking forward to being shown London by a native."

"Well, I hope you brought plenty of clothes, because youʻre going to get soaked walking around that city. No offense, Amélie."

"None taken. I like my city just the way it is." Amélie smiled. "Now, then, allons-y?"

"Indeed." Christine looped her arms through those of Amélie and Meg. "I'm terribly sorry, Daniel, but I'm going to have to borrow these two."

"Ah, no matter. I'll just chat with Raoul and Madame Giry." Daniel smiled. "You ladies talk as long as you like."

* * *

><p>Erik sat in front of the fire, a glass of cognac on the end table next to his chair, and tinkered with the metal bits that would make up the new music box. He checked the sheet music again, making sure he'd arranged the marks on the disc properly.<p>

"Monsieur Cammelle?" Erik stiffened at the sound of a knock on the door, and a man's voice. He never got visitors, and it was generally too early for traditional calling hours anyway. He quickly covered the music box pieces and grabbed the bandage sleeve he'd made, to make the process of concealing his face more efficient. Pulling it over his exposed face as he made his way to the door, he opened it to see Henri Larocque standing before him. "Have I called at an inopportune time?"

"No… but shouldn't you be supervising rehearsals, or taking care of business at the Opera?"

"I am attending to business. May I come in?"

"Of… Of course, but let's use the study. I have something in the parlor…" Erik stepped back to allow the older man in. "So, what business would you be attending to in my home, Henri?"

"Hopefully, acquiring a business partner," Henri answered, following Erik into the study. "If you are willing, that is."

"You're asking me to collaborate with you?" Erik asked, gesturing to one of the armchairs. "Please, sit. Anything to drink? I have to keep it all in here, it's the one place Amélie never comes."

"Ah, yes, I've seen her drunk, the poor child." Henri mused, lowering himself into the chair. "But no, thank you, I feel it's a little early in the day for such things."

"As you wish." Erik poured himself a bourbon and sat in the chair across from Henri. "And am I correct in my guess?"

"You are. I believe you're the one who taught your sister, yes?"

"That I am. But Monsieur Reyer is a fine repetiteur, you don't need a new one."

"No, we do not. But I simply cannot handle this bloody business on my own, Bastien. It's overwhelming me. And, despite my love of it, it's becoming clear that I don't appreciate the finer things about opera, not the way you do. My skills are more in the realm of finance. I believe combining our skills would only be beneficial."

Erik took a sip of bourbon, contemplating the offer. To be running the opera, and legitimately this time? The prospect seemed intriguing. "I don't know…" he lied. "It's been a long time since I've done, well, anything."

"You were in the war?"

"I spent a lot of time suffering afterwards because of it." Erik answered truthfully.

"It was more than ten years ago."

"Wars never leave. Not really. We bear scars from them. Some on the outside, others within. I'm one who was unfortunate to receive both kinds. And a German hospital is not the best place to be recovering from such wounds. That's why I took so long to get back home."

"Well, everyone seems to enjoy your company at the opera. And you clearly enjoy the music, so why not? It'd be your chance to join normal life again."

_Normal_. Erik tried not to sigh. All he'd ever wanted… and yet, he was still the man in the mask. Any life he ever had would merely be a mask of his past. But he still wanted it. It was all depending on Daniel, really. And if the marquis failed to convince Amélie, it would fall to Erik to explain her disappearance.

"Until the twenty-third of September," he said. "I have an obligation to my sister. If she goes through with her plans to leave France, I'll go with her. But I will try to convince her to stay, and if I can, then we continue as partners."

Larocque considered for a minute. "Very well. A partner for four months is better than no partner at all. And it will give me some time to see about potential successors, should your sister refuse to change her mind."

"Then we've a deal," Erik said, holding out his hand.

"We do." Henri clasped his hand and the two men shook on their new partnership.

* * *

><p>Amélie watched the British countryside whiz by, and turned back to her friends, grinning. "I'd almost forgotten how pretty it can be here."<p>

"When it's not raining," Christine replied.

"A technicality," retorted Amélie.

"I think it looks dreary," Meg remarked. "All misty and grey—"

"Rather like something out of a Gothic novel," Daniel interjected.

"You read those?" Raoul asked incredulously. "Daniel, I believe Amélie's affected your judgement!"

"I'm well within earshot, Raoul, and I take offense at that!" Amélie declared indignantly. "Are you saying I'm—"

"I'm saying gothic novels are ridiculous!"

"I like them, dear," Christine murmured sharply. Raoul immediately flushed red and hung his head penitently. Amélie fought the urge to cough 'whipped.' It would have been neither proper nor period appropriate. The remainder of the train ride was spent in a much lighter mood, with joking, card games, and general merriment. As the London skyline came into view, Meg let out a small _ooh_ of appreciation.

"I concede, Amélie, it does look beautiful," she murmured. "That big dome, is that—"

"Saint Paul's Cathedral. Where the ceremony will be."

"The clock tower over there?"

"The Clock Tower of Parliament. It's attached to Westminster, where every monarch of England has been crowned since the eleventh century." Amélie answered proudly. "Including her Majesty, Queen Victoria."

"Someone tried to assassinate her in March," Raoul remarked, reshuffling the cards.

"Plenty of people have tried to assassinate Her Majesty. They all fail, obviously." Amélie said, accepting the hand he had dealt her. "First bid?"

"Will you two put the cards away?" Meg whined. "I want to know more about London!"

"Very well, what do you want to know?" Amélie handed her cards back to Raoul. "Sorry, Raoul. Perhaps another time?"

"I shan't be forgetting." Raoul promised. "And, Meg, whatever questions you have, be quick about them, we'll be at the station in a matter of minutes."

Meg began a question and answer round that was so rapid fire, Amélie felt hard pressed to reply promptly and accurately, especially given that she had to keep any anachronistic things out of her mind. She was explaining Harrods when the train pulled into Victoria Station.

"I must say, it doesn't sound so bad after all," Meg murmured. "Thank you."

"Not at all."

* * *

><p><em><strong>May 5, 1882<strong>_

Amélie couldn't sleep. She wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the fact that while this was London, it wasn't _her_ London, the one she'd grown up with. Maybe it was worrying what Erik was up to, and the tiny inkling that he might have followed them to London, rather than returning to Paris as promised. Maybe it was the fact that Daniel was in a room just down the hall. Whatever it was, she still made the choice to swing her legs out of bed, retrieve her robe, slip out of the room she was sharing with Meg, and make her way to the inner courtyard.

The days they'd spent leading up to the wedding had been wonderful, idle days, apart from all the fittings for their dresses, and Christine's general pre-wedding panics, and Amélie had loved every second. It was all she'd never gotten to do for Angelica.

The courtyard was a wild overgrown maze of plants and flowers which, apparently, Christine had begged Raoul to leave alone. Amélie pushed away several branches, wincing as a few thorns pricked at her arms. As her foot came down on a twig and snapped it, a small gasp told her she wasn't alone.

"Who's there?" Christine's voice called out softly. Amélie stepped into the small clearing where Christine sat on a carved marble bench. "Oh, Amélie. Hello."

"Hello." Amélie sat down next to her. "What are you doing out here? A London evening in May is not really healthy, and you've got a rather important day tomorrow."

"I just… I come here every night. It feels closer to him."

"To Erik?" Amélie asked. Christine didn't reply "Does Raoul know?"

"No… no, I can't tell him that. I was hoping you'd come out here sooner or later."

"What is it?"

"Amélie, is he happy?"

"I honestly can't say. I don't know how his mind works." Amélie placed her hand on top of Christine's. "But he seems healthier. He goes out a lot now, he wears bandages over his face to hide it. He was at the April Fools' Masque and didn't cause any trouble."

"Does he ever mention me?"

"We try to keep your name unspoken as often as possible. I don't want to upset him. Not again. When I upset him, I generally end up getting hurt." Christine tried not to smile. "I almost didn't come. He wouldn't escort me, because he didn't want to disrupt your life any further."

"Oh." Christine chewed her bottom lip. "I see."

"Listen, it'll be fine. You and Raoul are going to have a wonderful life together, I promise." Amélie wrapped her arms around Christine tightly. "You deserve it, and he would want you to be happy. It's why he let you go. Now, let's get you to bed, you've a big day tomorrow."

* * *

><p><em><strong>May 6, 1882<strong>_

"I think I might faint," Christine murmured, looking at herself in the mirror. "I'm scared."

"Nonsense," Amélie chided, smoothing a few minuscule wrinkles on Christine's dress. It was very similar to the one she and Erik had made, but it had a square neckline with silver scalloping rather than a pointed neckline with gold flowers on the bodice. It better suited Christine, giving more contrast to her brown hair, which was twisted up in a simple chignon beneath the snowy folds of her veil and headpiece, a silver diadem with flowers carved from mother-of-pearl. "You look beautiful."

"Absolutely," Meg agreed, fussing with the circlet of pink silk roses in her hair. "I'm more upset that you put us in pink!"

"It's rose, not pink," Christine corrected. "And it looks lovely on the both of you." Amélie grinned her approval. The bridesmaid dresses were a very muted deep pink, with threads of gold woven into them, and rosettes along the hems that matched the circlets.

"Thank you, Christine. Meg and I will have to go now, we're going on before you."

"You talk about it like it's another performance." Christine murmured.

"Well, it is, isn't it? Take a few steps, say a few words, kiss. That's it." Meg pointed out. "And Amélie is right. We have to go."

"Then go." Christine handed them their bouquets. "I'll be right behind you." Amélie accepted her bouquet and hurried out of the dressing room. At the entrance to the greater sanctuary stood Daniel and Comte Philippe de Chagny, Raoul's elder brother. Daniel's jaw dropped at the sight of Amélie, his eyes wide with admiration.

"I look ridiculous, don't I?" Amélie asked self consciously.

"You're radiant," Daniel assured her. Philippe shrugged noncommittally. Maybe it was lingering resentment that Raoul was going through with his marriage to Christine, despite Philippe's attempts to discourage him. "And, Mam'selle Giry, lovely as always." Meg stepped nimbly around Amélie, taking Philippe's stiff arm. "Come on, Philippe, smile, it's your little brother's wedding day!"

"An _opera singer_," Philippe grumbled. "Honestly, he could've had any woman in the nobility, and instead he marries a chorus girl with neither connections nor status." Meg elbowed him in the ribs sharply, and he obliged Daniel, tugging the corners of his mouth into a half smile before pushing open the sanctuary doors. Amélie took Daniel's arm and they followed the first pair down the aisle.

As they passed Raoul, Amélie whispered "Wait till you see her," quoting Prince Harry. Raoul smiled a little as she and the others took their places. Everyone in the church began to turn as the traditional march began, and Raoul's grin widened. Christine moved gracefully towards them, the radiance of her smile shining through the layers of her veil.

Amélie watched the ceremony, her smile threatening to split her face. She didn't understand most of what the priest was saying, since it was in Latin she'd never heard before, but Christine and Raoul seemed to know what they were doing, as did Philippe and Meg. Rings were exchanged, the priest spoke a final blessing, and Christine threw her arms around Raoul's neck, kissing him deeply. As everyone followed the newlyweds out of the church, Daniel caught Amélie by the arm.

"What is it?" she asked. "We should go, we have to get to the reception."

"I know, and we can in a moment," he promised, "but I wanted to ask you something." Amélie felt the pace of her heartbeat triple. He couldn't mean to… "No, it's not that. I'm not down on one knee, am I?" She laughed in relief at his joke. "Did you mean what you said on the ferry, or was it just to make me stop being cross with you?"

"Of course I meant it!"

"Hmmm." He leaned in and kissed her deeply. Amélie let herself melt against him. How the hell was she going to cope without these moments when she went home? Daniel pulled away from her, a cheeky grin on his face. "I believe you."

* * *

><p>AN: There's an alternate title for this mega-chapter. It's "_Love Never Dies_ Is A Pile of Bullshit." And yes, I just revealed Amélie's sort of responsible for the Royal Albert Hall Monstrosity, as that incarnation of the wedding dress has come to be known. If you don't know what I'm talking about, google Sierra Boggess in both London and Broadway's 25th anniversaries. Additionally, though there was a rehearsal for the wedding, Amélie zoned out through that one as well, making goo-goo eyes at Daniel the entire time, who, I might add, made them right back, and having the rehearsal included in this already large chapter seemed to make it redundant.


	21. Cracks in the Surface

_**May 9, 1882**_

Erik glanced at the clock again. Half past three. Where the hell was Amélie? She should have arrived by this time. Someone knocked at the door. It couldn't have been Amélie, she had a key. "One minute!" he yelled, shuffling aside the stack of scores on his desk and hurrying to the door. When he opened it, an unwelcomely familiar acquaintance stood on the opposite side. "Vahid, Daroga of Mazanderan. To what do I owe the rather dubious pleasure?"

"I wasn't even certain you were still using this house, Erik. I was under the impression that this was Amélie Cammelle's place of residence."

"You knew full well Amélie and I were connected, I know you're the one who sent me that note."

"Guilty as charged. May I come inside, or would you prefer—"

"If you must, you great booby," Erik muttered, stepping aside to let the Persian enter. "How did you find out about her?"

"You would not have taken her below on the night of your opera if you had not had some plan for her. And I spoke with the Vicomte de Chagny after the incident." Erik's grip tightened on the door. "Only to inquire about where you might have gone. Forgive me if I feel responsible for you."

"You are not responsible for Erik. Erik can take care of himself."

"You still do that?"

"Do what?" Erik asked innocently. "I have no notion of what you're talking about, my dear Daroga."

"Just as I left you," Vahid grumbled, striding into the parlor and plucking the finished music box from the end table. "A change from monkeys, hmm?"

"You were in my vaults?" Erik snarled.

"After the incident, everyone in Paris must have been in those vaults, Erik. They're not yours, anyway." Erik sniffed at the observation and gestured for Vahid to put the music box down. The Persian did so, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you going to explain what significance she has in all this, or shall I guess?"

"You remember that time spell I was so fascinated with during my time in the Shah's court?" Erik asked, striding over to pour himself a glass of cognac.

"Tell me you didn't."

"How could I not? I'm hardly the type to resist temptation. Besides that, I found the prospect of putting time at my command rather alluring. But I swear, Amélie activating the spell was a complete accident."

"When is she from, then?"

"Approximately thirteen decades from now. The year 2011. I think she's adapted rather well."

"I didn't suspect when I saw her on my rounds of the opera house."

"Rounds to check on me, you mean." Erik muttered, taking another swallow of his drink. "I know, you consider yourself justified, given the record I have, et cetera. But Amélie, for the most part, seems to do your job just as well. And she has a rather positive and befuddling effect on me."

"Tell me you're not in love with the girl."

"No such thing could ever be possible. She has never been that to me, not even when we kissed." Vahid's jaw dropped to his chest. "It was while we were working through _Don Juan Triumphant_. We have not spoken of it since."

"I'm stunned. She remains here with you, despite everything? She sounds a most perplexing young woman."

"In many, many ways." Erik agreed. Something thudded at the door.

"I can't believe you're going," Amélie's voice carried through one of the open windows.

"It's part of my responsibility as the Marquis, Amélie. I promise, I'll be back in a week." Daniel's voice replied.

Amélie huffed loudly before saying, "Then go, so you can get back sooner."

"I'm going!" The two of them laughed, and Erik heard the sound of a soft kiss, and, after a moment, a carriage rattling away.

"I'm back!" Amélie yelled, striding inside. Erik rose to greet her, kissing her hair as they met in the foyer. "Well, this is an unexpectedly warm welcome. What've you done that's making you feel the need to coddle me?"

"We have a guest, Amélie, and a rather singular one. Daroga, come here and meet that perplexing young woman we were just discussing." Amélie's jaw dropped at the name Daroga, and dropped even further as Vahid walked over to join them.

"Hello, Miss Cammelle." He gave a small bow, and Amélie bobbed a curtsy in reply. "I hope I've not frightened you."

"No, not frightened, Mr. Daroga, just a little stunned," Amélie answered calmly, "stunned by the fact that you exist."

"Should I not exist?"

"It's a very long story. I don't know how much Erik's told you, but it's quite complicated."

"I completely understand. I have very much enjoyed your performances at the Opera, and it was a pleasure to meet you, but I think I shall be going now. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Won't you stay longer?" Amélie asked, clearly playing the coy hostess.

"I only came here to check on Erik, and now I have. So, I will take my leave of you both. Until we meet again." Vahid bowed and stepped out the door, closing it behind him, and leaving Amélie standing awestruck.

* * *

><p>"The Persian's real," she whispered breathlessly. "How's that possible? I thought… oooh, my head hurts." She rubbed her forehead. "Anyway, what have you been up to?"<p>

"Nothing much, really, just a partnership with Henri Larocque until the end of your contract."

"Really? So, getting back to your operatic roots, hmmm?" Amélie grinned. "Glad to hear it. So, what are you planning for the remainder of the season? _Così fan tutti_, perhaps?"

"We've already given a Mozart, I'm not in the mood for another. I had been considering_ Il Matrimonio Segreto_. A charming little piece, and I think you would make a sweet Carolina."

"Then can we please do _Così_ as my final show in September? I really want to sing Fiordiligi."

"Let's see, we have three more productions for this season, and two for next season, which starts at the end of August. I suppose we can give a _Così_ for your last show."

"Yay!" Amélie hugged him eagerly. "Thank you! Oh, it's gonna be good!"

"Don't get too excited, you still have four productions before that." Amélie's features immediately twisted into a pout at his words. "I have a little welcome back gift for you."

"You do? What is it? Hey!" she squeaked as he covered her eyes. "Erik, I can't see!"

"That's the point. It's a surprise."

"Then couldn't you just tell me to wait here?" she demanded as he guided her into the parlor. "Will you please just take your hands off my eyes?"

"Keep them closed."

"Fine! Just let go of my face!" Amélie kept her eyes shut as he lifted his hands off.

"Cup your palms and hold them out." Amélie did so and felt something land in her palms. "You can open your eyes now."

"Oh!" She was looking down at a little gold box decorated with blue lacquer and white crystals. "Is it a jewelry box?"

"Turn it over." Amélie obeyed, locating the key.

"A music box? What does it play?" Erik didn't answer. "Oh, I get it. Fine, here goes." She twisted the little knob and the lid opened to display a delicate twisting sculpture of blue and gold glass, while a lilting tune chimed out. "Oh, Erik, it's lovely! Did you write this?"

"I did. And you like it?"

"I love it! Did it take long to make?"

"I had quite a bit of free time, even with my new job. It was easy enough."

"Well, thank you." She kissed his cheek. "It'll be a great souvenir to bring back home."

"Amélie… there's something I need to talk to you about."

"I have something too," she murmured. "Do you want to go first?"

"Yes, please." He gestured to the sofa. "Sit down. Do you want a drink?"

"No, thanks." She settled into the couch, playing with the music box. "So, what is it? What do you need to talk about?" Erik didn't answer her, but walked over to refill his glass. "Hey. Hey, don't you dare ignore me. You said you wanted to talk, now talk."

"Someone's impatient," he murmured, and Amélie glared in response. "Ah, very well. You've been here for several months, and I've actually grown to enjoy your company. Although it's more than that. I've come to see you rather like my conscience. And my friend."

"Erik…" she bit her lip, getting an inkling of where he was going. "Whatever you're getting at, just get to it."

"I want you to stay. I'm better with you here. I care about you." She didn't answer him. She couldn't think of a proper response to such things. "I know you miss your family, and your old life. But you also have a life here now, Amélie. There are people who care about you, people who love you. There's Meg, and your other friends at the opera, there's me, there's Daniel. Can you really leave them all behind?"

"Erik—"

"How am I supposed to explain my sister disappearing into thin air to everyone? And do tell me how you expect Daniel to take that news?"

"I don't expect him to," Amélie whispered.

"What was that?"

"I said I don't expect him to take that news because I want to tell him the truth!" Amélie screamed. "And you wouldn't know anything about it! You don't know what it's like to be in love!"

"Don't you dare—"

"OH, I'LL FUCKING DARE! BECAUSE I HAD IT, ERIK! I HAD A FAMILY BACK HOME! I HAD FRIENDS, PEOPLE WHO CARE ABOUT ME, PEOPLE WHO ARE WAITING FOR ME! YOU THINK IT'S BAD NEVER HAVING ANYONE LOVE YOU! NO, THERE'S SOMETHING WORSE. THERE'S SOMETHING WAY WORSE! IT'S LOSING PEOPLE YOU LOVE AND NEVER GETTING TO TELL THEM! NEVER GETTING TO SAY I LOVE YOU BEFORE YOU GO. EVERY NIGHT, I GO TO BED, AND I SEE THEM. I SEE MY SISTER, AND HER FAMILY!" She sank onto one of the sofa's cushions. "I… I was never fond of her husband, Charles. I thought he was rude, and arrogant, and a right smarmy twat, but he made her so _happy_. He probably saved her life. I need to thank him for that. And my friends… I need to apologize for every time I pulled the plug on their silly little fights, and… I can't let this be the last time I see them. Look, I'm telling Daniel the truth about me, with or without your permission. And I'm moving out." The last one was a bit of an afterthought, but he just had her so frustrated!

"Amélie—"

"Thank you for the gift." She placed the music box back on the table, rose, and strode to the foyer, grabbing her trunk by the handle and marching out the door. It slammed shut behind her, and it was only then Amélie realized exactly how stupid she'd just been. She had no idea where to go, and, on top of it all, it was looking like rain. "Bugger," she muttered, tugging her trunk down the walkway and along the street. "Bugger, bugger, bu— OH, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY!" she screamed as thunder roared and the rain began dumping down on her. Within mere moments, she was soaked to the bone, and her jacket was at the bottom of her trunk. Defeated, she set the trunk on its side and sank onto it, sobbing noisily. A carriage rattled to a halt, splashing mud onto her skirts.

"Amélie?" Roger Delaurier's head poked out of the carriage window. "Are you all right, my dear?" Without letting her answer, he gestured to the driver, who immediately climbed down and opened the carriage door for her. "Get in, before you catch your death!" She didn't need to be told twice, and climbed in, leaving her trunk for the driver to retrieve. "Here." Roger handed her his coat, helping her wrap it around her body. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened?"

"I had a falling out with Bastien," Amélie answered.

"May I ask what caused it?" Roger closed the door and the carriage began moving again.

"We had a disagreement over confidentiality, and I decided to move out."

"Seems a bit hasty." Roger's tone reminded her of the one Thomas Cammelle had used every time he'd caught her researching on the internet in the wee hours of the morning. It was a tone that said, _Amélie, what on earth were you thinking, you had to know this was a bad idea._

"I know," she grumbled. "But he made me so _mad_, I had to!"

"I don't think that was very wise, Amélie. He is your brother, after all, and your employer now." Roger searched her face. "That's not what the problem is, is it?"

"No! No, I'm glad he's got a job, I think he was getting restless with nothing to do." Amélie picked at her nails. "It was about Daniel."

"Ah. Is he against you seeing the Marquis? I thought they got along very well."

"Oh, they do!" Amélie assured him. "But Bastien and I have different views on how much we should let Daniel into our lives."

"Then it's a matter of time?"

"Roger, I'd prefer not to talk about this, please," Amélie said quietly.

"Of course, Amélie. I didn't mean to upset you. You're more than welcome to stay with me and Violette for as long as you need."

"Your wife won't mind?"

"My dear Amélie, Violette's been quite eager to meet you ever since she saw you sing Pamina. She considers you a marvel."

"And yet, this is the first I'm hearing of it?"

"She doesn't much care for crowds, so she doesn't attend galas or balls, and she only goes to the opera when she likes the stories. She met Carlotta once and spent a week trembling in bed afterwards."

"Goodness, she sounds impressionable," Amélie remarked.

"Gentle as a lamb, and just as sweet," Roger agreed. "But that is what drew me to her. So, please, mind that wit of yours."

"You think I'm clever?"

"I think you've got a sharp tongue that you ought to sheathe more often, particularly if you want to continue as the mistress of an aristocrat."

"Mistress!" Amélie squeaked indignantly.

"That is what you are, for the time being, Amélie. There is no ring upon your finger suggesting an engagement."

"But he's not paying me, and I'm not sleeping with him!" she replied huffily. "So, as I see it, I'm not his mistress."

"Then what are you?" Roger asked. His question seemed light and conversational, especially considering the topic of their conversation.

"I'm his," she said simply. "And he's mine. It's that simple."

"You are a bizarre child," Roger murmured, leaning back as if to get a better look at her.

"I've heard that more often than you might think," Amélie murmured, staring out the window.


	22. Honesty

_**May 10, 1882**_

"Amélie? Wake up, dear." Amélie rolled over to see Violette Delaurier leaning over her. "Breakfast's ready, and you and Roger need to get to work."

"Thank you, I'll be down in a minute. And thank you for letting me stay here."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, dear!" Violette smiled and bustled out of the guest room, leaving Amélie to dress. Outside, the smell of a wet city gave her a small sense of comfort, reminding her of London. Humming to herself as she finished changing, she hurried down to the dining room.

"Good morning," Roger said warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, thank you," she answered, grabbing a roll and spreading butter across it. "You have a lovely home, Roger. Very cozy."

"Thank you, we thought so too." Roger smiled at her. "Are you feeling better?"

"Oh, much. A good night's sleep can fix anything." She smiled back and bit into her roll. "Mmm, this is delicious!"

"Well, you'd better eat quickly, I let you sleep in, and we might end up being late."

"Sorry, _Papa_," Amélie joked, stuffing the rest of the roll in her mouth and grabbing a few strawberries from a bowl near her plate. Violette giggled at the use of the term, and Roger rolled his eyes.

"Come along, little one," he said, taking her by the arm.

"But I'm not finished eating!"

"You can eat on the way, it wouldn't be prudent for you to be late on your first day back. Now, get your jacket and come along."

"Oh, fine!" Amélie kissed Violette on the cheek before cramming two of the strawberries into her cheeks, making them bloated like a chipmunk's. Violette clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter, and shooed Amélie out the door. Paris was bustling with early morning activity, and the two opera singers made their way to the Populaire.

"I know you don't want to discuss details of your fight with your brother, Amélie, but could you at least explain to me the situation?"

"Bastien and I have an aspect of our lives that I want to share with Daniel, Bastien refused and called me selfish, we fought, I stormed out, the end."

"Perhaps you should be a little more open to him. I'm not saying he's right, but he's still your brother. He's trying to do what's best for you."

"Shouldn't I know what's best for me?"

"You're a young woman in love, Amélie, it's entirely possible for your feelings to cloud your judgement."

"Maybe Bastien's the one whose feelings are clouding his judgement," she muttered. "I'm not a child, Roger, I can take care of myself."

"Younger siblings are always children to the elders."

"Are you saying I'm immature?"

"I'm saying it wouldn't hurt for you to listen and be a little less headstrong about all this."

They reached the Populaire, finding posters for _Norma_ with Emmeline in the titular role decorating the front of the building, and several of the ballet rats, including Meg, gossiping on the front steps. "Good morning!" Amélie called out, waving.

"Amélie, there you are!" Meg ran down the steps to meet her. "What's going on? Why did your brother show up without you?"

"Sibling spat," Amélie muttered. "He's being a stubborn arse." Meg chuckled lightly. "Let's go in, shall we? We might as well find out what he's got in store for us."

"I quite agree," Roger said, pushing open one of the doors. "After you, ladies."

"Thank you, Roger," all the women chorused, filing into the building.

"You're welcome," he smiled. "It's really moments like these where I adore my job. Where else can I spend time with so many beautiful women without my wife getting upset with me?"

"I'm telling your wife," Amélie warned, smacking him on the arm.

"You know I'm joking."

"Do I really?"

"Hush."

"Make me, Papa."

"And stop calling me Papa."

"I thought you wanted children, though."

"Amélie, I want a child of my own, not a grown woman with a rather impertinent disposition." Roger remarked, shepherding her to the theatre. Erik stood at the entrance, arms crossed. "Ah… Monsieur Cammelle…"

"Roger. Thank you for looking after her last night."

"You're welcome," Roger replied, slipping past them. "Think about what I said, Amélie." The professed siblings stood with their arms crossed, silently staring at one another. It was Erik who broke the tacit standoff.

"Will you please come into my office so we can talk about this without being overheard?"

"Are you willing to hear me out, or are you going to be a stubborn ass about it?" she retorted.

"I will hear you out if you will allow me the same courtesy. Office?"

"Don't you have to announce the next production?"

"It's _Tristan und Isolde_. Henri will pass on the message to the rest of the company. Now, come on, we need to talk." They navigated their way into the managers' offices, Erik locking the door behind them. "Firstly, you're right."

"I'm right about a lot of things, you'll have to be more specific," Amélie snarked.

"Can you please not be such an irritation to me? I am trying to concede that your assessment of my being selfish was correct. I am selfish, Amélie, it's in my nature. But you have to listen to me when I say that telling Daniel may not be the best idea."

"Why not? He loves me, Erik, and I love him. Why shouldn't I trust him?"

"Because what you want to tell him would most likely get you sent to a mental asylum."

"Christine believed me when I told her."

"Christine is not an ordinary person." Erik took one of the seats behind the desk. "Perhaps it was her father's stories, but she was always more open to the fantastical than most. There is no guarantee that Daniel will be half so open to such things."

"If he loves me—"

"Amélie, I'm sure he does, but that does not mean he wouldn't be alarmed. And what about me? If you tell him about me, we could both be arrested."

"Erik, please. I want to ask him to come with me."

"You would ask him to give up his life?"

"No. I want him to draw that conclusion and make the choice on his own."

"And if he doesn't. He deserves to know the truth about me."

"This is something that would hinder us, not help. May I offer a counter-proposal, or will you resist?"

"I suppose I'll listen," she said grudgingly, sitting on the floor and letting her skirts poof up around her. "Go ahead."

"You can tell Daniel when he returns, but it will be at our home, and if he does not decide he wants to go with you, then you will allow me to use a potion to erase his memories of you telling him."

"Then I'd still be lying."

"We'll come up with something," Erik promised. "And there's one other thing. I think I've found a way for you to leave without anyone wondering where you've gone."

"What's that?"

"Death."

"WHAT?!" Amélie shot up in alarm. "WHAT?!"

"Calm down!"

"HOW CAN I BE CALM, YOU JUST SAID YOU WERE GOING TO KILL ME!" Erik got out of his chair and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Mmmph! Mmmph!"

"Are you going to be quiet, or do I have to keep my hand in place until I'm done explaining?" Amélie bit his hand, and he grunted. "Apparently, I do. It wouldn't be killing you, Amélie, just simulating death. One might call it an homage to Shakespeare."

"Mmmntdrnkng..…" He let go of her mouth. "I'm not drinking some eau de rigor mortis if that's what you're suggesting!"

"Will you let me finish?" She crossed her arms and glared at him, but remained silent. "Yes, it would be a mixture simulating all the symptoms of death. We'd have to set up an accident of some kind, as a healthy young woman would not simply die in her sleep."

"Actually, it can happen to anyone. Heart failure is a cause of death for all ages." Amélie countered, trying to gain back some control of the situation. "So, can we avoid a carriage crash or whatever it was you wanted to do?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of drowning in the Seine. That situation is one where your body could end up not being found without arousing suspicion."

"And if Daniel wants to come with me, he has to do that too, right?"

"Exactly," Erik said. "The mixture would be in effect for approximately three days, which is the same length of time a search usually lasts. Unless it's someone like me."

"And the star of the Opera Populaire, as well as its principal patron—"

"Oh, I guarantee they'll look for you, but Parisian sewers rival the Labyrinth of Crete in their complexity, it's highly unlikely they'd be able to find you."

"So, if I'm going missing, why do I have to drink this thing again?"

"Because on the off chance that they do find you, we can't risk you appearing alive."

"And how are you going to find this sort-of dead me?"

"I have more friends than you might think."

"The rat-catchers," Amélie guessed.

"Clever girl."

"I am, aren't I?"

"Don't get a big head, it was still extremely irresponsible of you to run out like that."

"I know, I know, but I'm okay, and I'll get my stuff from the Delauriers tonight. Violette might be sad, though. I think she rather liked me."

"You're quite likable until people actually get to know you." Erik remarked, passing her a score. Amélie stuck out her tongue. "Yes, yes, good, now, rehearsal. Go."

"I'm going!" she snapped, sticking the score under her arm and hurrying to the practice rooms. Emmeline poked her head out of number five and waved. "In here! You're just in time, we're doing Act One, Scene Five."

"Thank you." Amélie stepped into the room, flipping to the appropriate page.

"_Begehrt, Herrin, was Ihr wünscht_." Jerome sang the opening line after their tacet ended.

"_Wüsstest du nicht, was ich begehre, da doch die Furcht, mir's zu erfüllen, fern meinem Blick dich hielt_?" Amélie sang back, stumbling over a few of the words.

"_Ehrfurcht_ _hielt mich in Acht_."

"_Der Ehre wenig botest du mir; mit off'nem Hohn verwehrtest du Gehorsam meinem Gebot_." She perused the translation and scowled. Of course Erik would want her starting out with a recitative about obedience. His little vengeance. _I'll kill him someday, I swear to God…_

* * *

><p><em><strong>May 16, 1882<strong>_

"I don't know that I can do this…" Amélie muttered, fiddling with the tassels on her dress.

"You were the one who wanted to tell him," Erik reminded her. "You are not backing out now."

"What if—No. No. I'm stopping, I promise."

"You said that last time." Erik muttered, taking a sip of bourbon.

"You've been developing a habit of drinking, you know that, right?" she asked, taking a swallow of her own drink, a steaming cup of chamomile tea with honey. "Oh, that's nice."

"I do not have a drinking problem," Erik snapped.

"And I'm not from the twenty-first century." A knock came at the door, and Amélie set down her teacup. "He's here. I'll get the door." Daniel was waiting for her with an eager smile when she opened the door.

"Did you miss me?" he asked.

"What do you think?" she fell into his arms, kissing him deeply. As they separated, she took his hand and pulled him inside. "Bastien! He's here!" Erik nodded from the armchair where he sat.

"How have you been, Bastien?" Daniel asked politely, taking a seat next to Amélie on the sofa.

"Well enough, but for this one giving me an earful."

"Oh, rubbish," Amélie retorted, pouring Daniel a cup of tea. "You needed it, and we both know it."

"You don't know how much I've missed hearing the two of you bicker," Daniel laughed. "It's quite comforting, really."

"Comforting would not be my word, but I suppose everyone has their tastes," Erik remarked. "Amélie, would you prefer it if I left?"

"Just for a little bit, please."

"Very well. I'll be in the study." Erik collected his papers and his drink and slipped out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Amélie slid closer to Daniel.

"You don't know how happy I am that I can finally talk to you about this," she whispered. "Daniel, you love me, right?"

"You know I do."

"Would you always love me? No matter what?"

"Of… of course. Amélie, what's going on, I don't understand." Daniel asked. "Please… can you just tell me what this is about?"

"It's about me." Amélie said, becoming painfully aware that she was giving a 'it's not you, it's me' speech. "I'm not from here, Daniel. I never have been."

"What do you mean?" Amélie pulled out something from her pocket: her scarlet United Kingdom passport. "What is this?" She opened the little booklet to her ID. The photo had been taken just after she'd cut her hair and dyed it red, back in 2009, but otherwise, it still looked like her.

"That's me. Two years ago."

"What where you thinking? It's scarlet!"

"I know, I know, but that's not the point! Look at the date of birth." Their eyes both traveled to the line of text in question. _22 Aug 89._ "That's the year 1989."

"But that would mean… No, that can't be right." Daniel looked at her in disbelief. "That would mean you're—"

"From a different time. I know it sounds impossible, but it's true."

"But… that's not possible. It's just not."

"Daniel, please, listen to me. It is possible, it happened to me, I'm here from another time."

"Amélie, this is ridiculous."

"LISTEN TO ME." She grabbed his coat lapels, forcefully pulling him so they were eye to eye. "It's true. Every word I am saying is true, and it's the man you know as my brother who brought me here. It was by accident, I assure you, but I am here."

"The man I know as your brother… Bastien… he's…" Daniel reached up, touching his face and furrowing his brow. "No. No, Amélie, you can't mean… _him_?"

"You should come in now, Erik," Amélie said quietly, releasing her grip on Daniel.

"Erik?" Daniel repeated. "

"Oh, may I?" Erik asked snidely, striding back into the room. "And yes, I do have a name, Monsieur le Marquis, thank you for asking." He'd returned to wearing his mask, and his hair slicked back again, looking exactly as he had when they'd first met. Daniel's face paled and he reached for the inside of his coat. "Oh, don't bother, she's not going to let you hurt me."

"I'm seriously debating a wound to the shoulder," Amélie muttered angrily. "I thought you had more tact than this." Daniel looked at her, his face a mix of horror and pain.

"You… and… he…"

"Daniel, please, don't look at me that way, I had no choice. He wouldn't help me get home unless I helped him."

"All this time, behind my back, you were living with another man, and a murderer, too."

"Behind your back?" Amélie repeated in disgust. "You think I love him? No! I couldn't possibly, not ever!"

"Honestly, how can a person ever look romantically at the thorn in their side?" Erik asked dismissively. Amélie scowled at him. "You really shouldn't make that sort of a face so often, Amélie, it's not attractive."

"Stop. Stop just a moment." Daniel interrupted. "You helped him."

"Call it a Faustian deal," Amélie corrected. "He agreed to send me back home, I promised to get him where he needed to be. But I may have manipulated things so that they still resembled history… time travel's complicated."

"I should report him to the police. I should report both of you…" Amélie tensed and reached into her pocket for the vial of memory potion Erik had given her as Daniel faced her. "But not until I get an answer to this. Was it real? Was any of it real, or were you only pretending to have feelings for me?" She reached up and touched his cheek gently.

"My feelings for you are the only thing right now that makes me hesitate when I think about going home," she said. "But there's so much waiting for me in my own time, Daniel. I have a sister, and her family. I have friends, and a job, and a life… Sometimes, I go to bed, wondering if this is all a very bizarre dream, and when I awake, I'll be back in New York City, in my flat. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. You're what makes life here wonderful."

"But you'd still leave me."

"I don't want to, but my family would be heartbroken if they never saw me again. That's why I had to tell you."

"Is there anything I can say to make you stay?"

"No. I'm sorry, Daniel, but I just… I have to go home."

"Amélie, I understand. I lost my own parents, remember? I know how important it is to be with family. I would never ask you to give that up. But this time… thing… when you go home… will it only allow you to go through?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, not daring to hope what she was suspecting.

"What I mean is that I want to go with you. I love you, Amélie, and I don't want to lose you."

"Daniel, I can't ask you to give up everything, that's not fair."

"You're not asking me, I'm telling you, I want to go with you."

"Then you will." They both turned to look at Erik, who stood in the shadows of the study doorway, an oddly calm expression on his face. "As we agreed, Amélie. Of his own free will. I'll do it. I'll send him back with you."

"Hold on," Daniel interrupted. "I've got one condition."

"What's that?"

"It's not you I want the condition from, Bastien… Erik. Whoever you are. It's Amélie."

"Name it." Amélie said automatically.

"Marry me."

"What?" she gasped.

"That's the deal, Amélie. I'm giving up my life here, I think you can commit to me. That's the condition. Take it or leave it."

Amélie tapped a finger against her lips, drawing it out for as long as she could. "Hmmm." She watched Daniel's face fall and his eyes turn mournful, then smiled at him widely. "Of course I will." He kissed her so intensely he nearly knocked her backwards. "Daniel!"

"Sorry…"

"We will have a lot of plans to make," Erik warned them.

"Oh, hush," Amélie dismissed him. "There's more than enough time for that, Erik. Just let us have this moment for a little while. Please?"

"As you wish." He slipped back into the study, leaving the newly engaged couple kissing, drunk on their own happiness.


	23. Nightmares

**_May 18, 1882_**

"Talk to him." Amélie said. Erik looked at her in surprise. "I know you called me here to talk about direction, but it's driving me crazy. You need to talk to Daniel."

"Amélie, I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

"He doesn't trust you, and I want you two to at least cooperate well, if not go back to being friends. He's up in 'your' box right now."

Erik grimaced. "He's doing that just to spite me, isn't he?"

"If he is, I wouldn't know. But it needs to stop. If I keep hearing him suggest we put you in prison—"

"Fine, I'll go talk to him. But you need to give more for Isolde. The potion's supposed to be driving her mad with love." He saw her bite her tongue, as if holding back a snide comment about acting like him, but then, she nodded, and headed back onto the stage. Erik made his way out of the auditorium and up to Box Five, where Daniel was sitting. Erik cleared his throat, making the younger man jump a little. "May I have a word with you?"

"I can't think of anything I have to say to you," Daniel answered coolly.

"Very well. Then I'll speak to you." Erik lowered himself into the seat next to Daniel's. "Amélie told me you distrust me."

"And if I do? I've the right to be, don't I?"

"Amélie has lied to you as much as I have, yet you don't seem to distrust her."

"Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that Amélie isn't like you."

"That can be said of most people." Erik countered. "I know why you still trust Amélie: you love her. You view her as being my helpless victim. Victim, I'll grant you, but she's far from helpless."

"You kidnapped her."

"I did. And I caused her several injuries, which she still resents me for. There are often times when I wish she hadn't fallen into this era at all. But then, I remember how she is the one who has made me a better man."

"You're still a murderer."

"Ah, so that's what you're worried about." Erik grimaced slightly. "Tell me, what murders are you holding me responsible for? The death of my master when I was a child, trapped in a gypsy caravan? The countless people who died by my hand at the rosy hours of Mazanderan because the sultana commanded me to kill them?"

He could feel Daniel staring at him numbly, but he kept on listing the deaths. "Perhaps it's Joseph Buquet you were speaking of, the man I killed to keep from exposing my secrets to the world. And Piangi was simply an unhappy accident. I only meant to shut him up, not kill him. He squirmed too much."

"I don't…"

"I highly doubt that my homicidal past is really what is causing your distrust of me, Daniel, and I'm quite certain it has everything to do with the incidents surrounding Christine Daaé."

"Raoul de Chagny is one of my closest friends, I trust him completely."

"You have the right to." Erik grimaced. "But his perspective has just as much of a chance of being skewed as mine does."

"You tried to kill him. Do you deny it?"

"Not at all."

"How do I know you won't try the same thing on me?"

Erik snorted. "If I wanted Amélie Cammelle for myself, you wouldn't be allowed within a hundred feet of her. You're in no danger from me."

"Given the evidence, I have a hard time believing that claim, Monsieur."

"Will you hear me out?"

"You're welcome to keep talking, I don't have to listen."

"You do realize you're being extremely rude for an aristocrat, don't you?"  
>"I'm speaking to the most wanted man in Paris, whom everyone thinks is dead. I think the standard courtesies have flown out the window."<p>

"Hate me if you must, but you cannot expose me without also exposing Amélie." Erik leaned back into his seat, watching Amélie and Jerome onstage. "And I know you won't do that. You love her enough that you'll keep her secret." He sighed heavily. "I wanted this to last, you know. I wanted the two of you to fall in love, but I forgot just how Amélie is. When she gets an idea, there's no getting it out of her head."

"I don't understand."

"I wanted her to stay here. If there was any reason for to her to hesitate, even for a minute, she would've had to remain in our time forever. But I gave her my word, and I won't break it."

"You're still a—"

"I did what I had to in order to survive," Erik interrupted. "It was the only way. Or did you think I could just get an ordinary job like everyone else?"

"You're doing that now, aren't you?"

"Mainly thanks to Amélie rehabilitating me. Without her… I don't know what I would be. It's odd, but I think that night beneath this theatre would have happened as it did anyway. Something to do with fixed points. God knows I don't understand half of the terms that come out of her mouth when she talks about time."

"And what will you do when she's gone?"

"Disappear, I suppose," Erik mused. "I've done it before."

"And go unpunished for everything you've done?"

"My face is my punishment. A despicable irony, really. Had I been born with an ordinary face, I would not have committed any of those crimes—"

"I understand what you're saying," Daniel interrupted. "You don't need to explain. I'm not an idiot."

"You're well matched with Amélie in terms of rude retorts," Erik muttered. "So, is your mind set at ease about me yet?"

"I don't know. But I'll tolerate you for Amélie's sake." Daniel said grudgingly.

* * *

><p>Amélie was alone in her dressing room, writing in her journal.<p>

_I worry constantly. I need this journal more than ever now. It feels as though time is closing in on me, stifling me at every turn. I don't know how to react, and the growing friction between Erik and Daniel is starting to drive me mad._

A knock sounded at the door, and she slammed the journal shut, internally cursing at the knowledge that the ink would be smeared onto the opposite blank page. "Come in," she said, stuffing the journal into one of the dressing table drawers. Daniel opened the door and slipped inside the dressing room.

"Hello, Aimée," he said, kissing her cheek and using the French version of her nickname. "Your brother came to speak with me."

"Daniel, we're alone, you can call him Erik." Amélie said, brushing an errant strand of hair away from her face. "And I know, I'm the one who asked him to."

"I know, he told me." Daniel leaned against the wall and ran his fingers through his dark hair, giving a long exhale. "Amélie, I'm still not very happy that you lied to me, but I know why you did it, and I'm grateful that you did eventually make the choice to tell me the truth. I'll try to work as best I can with Erik, but I make no promises."

"Well, I suppose that's a start," Amélie said, reaching out to squeeze Daniel's hand. He pulled her up, raised her hand, and kissed the third finger, right on the spot where a ring would go. "I think you love me far more than I deserve."

"Sometimes, I think so, too." Daniel teased. "Which is why I'm putting another demand into our deal."

"Another one?" Amélie repeated. "Do tell."

"Oh, no, Miss Cammelle, that's my surprise for you."

"Daniel!" Amélie whined. "That's not fair…." The look on his face made her realize that was the whole point of it. "Oh. Well, I guess you are justified. But you will keep your promise, right?"

"Of course."

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 20, 1882<em>**

"EEEEEEEEEEYAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Erik woke to the sound of Amélie shrieking. He grabbed his robe and hurried into her room.

"Amélie, what is it, what's wrong?" he asked. Amélie was sitting in the middle of her bed, her hair and eyes wild, and her mouth dropped slightly as she looked up at him. Erik was suddenly aware of the lack of covering on his face. She was looking at him. "Oh… Oh…. I'm… I'll…"

"Stay," Amélie whimpered, reaching out to him. Her hand was trembling and her arms looked pale and slick with sweat. "Please, please, stay." Erik hesitated for a moment, then approached her and sat next to her on the bed, awkwardly wrapping his arms around her. Her entire body felt damp from the sweat and she shuddered into him.

"What's wrong?" he asked as she sobbed. "Amélie, it's all right, I'm here…"

"I'm… I'm fine…" she slowly exhaled. "I just… I had a nightmare."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

She nodded. "I was in a burning red room…. There was fire everywhere… I was on fire. I could feel my body burning up. I kept screaming, begging for help, but no one was there. And then, the room suddenly filled with water, and I was drowning, I couldn't breathe. And then I was in midair… I was falling, and I kept falling… I never hit the ground, and there were hands reaching out. I kept trying to grab them, but every time, they slipped out of my grip. I screamed, but no sound came out, and then… I hit the ground, and I woke up. I'm sorry… I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right," Erik soothed her gently. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me… you just startled me a little." She raised her fingertips to his face, gently brushing against the twisted mass of scarred flesh. Erik winced slightly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It doesn't hurt." Erik lied. "I'm simply not used to people touching my face."

"You're lying."

"How did you know?"

"You weren't making eye contact with me." Erik rolled his eyes at her comment. "Well, you weren't!"

"Hmph." Erik remained silent for a moment. "Were you really not scared?"

"I've seen worse," Amélie said solemnly.

"Liar."

"I'm telling the truth." She twisted her fingers awkwardly and chewed her lip. "I… I did this piece… it was on victims of domestic abuse. I interviewed quite a few victims of acid attacks, and the results…. The results make you look like Raoul by comparison."

"Acid attacks?" Erik repeated, barely hearing what she said about Raoul.

"In some parts of the world, people will throw acid at their victims. It's very common in parts of the Middle East, where women especially are at a greater risk. And their attackers are often members of their own family. Sometimes even their husbands." Amélie explained. "That's the short of it, anyway. Those kinds of attacks are the worst, if you ask me. They don't just injure the victim physically, they injure them psychologically and socially as well."

"I see. Well, it's late, perhaps we should go back to sleep," Erik said. "Do you want tea before you do?"

"I'm fine. Good night."

"Good night." Erik rose and left the room, exhaling and realizing for the first time just how comforting it was to have someone see him.

"Erik?" Amélie called quietly. He turned back to look at her. "For what it's worth, I didn't want to see you like that. I… I liked having to judge for who you were, rather than what you looked like."

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, my little one."

"I'm not little," she sulked, sticking out her tongue.

"Good night, Amélie."

"Good night, Erik."


	24. The Nightingale and The Rose

**_July 1, 1882_**

"Amélie, will you get the door?" Erik called as the doorbell rang again and again.

"Oh, come on, I was just about to start my hair!" Amélie whined from her room, shaking the last of her hair pins out of the blonde mane. "Do you have any idea how long it takes me to—"

"Please." Erik's voice was so gentle that Amélie felt guilty for acting childish.

"All right, all right," she said, hurrying down the stairs. When she opened the door, her jaw dropped to see who was standing on the doorstep. "Chris… Christine!"

"I'm here!" The brunette squealed, hugging her gleefully.

"Well.. Yes… I can see that," Amélie answered. "But… why?" Christine's face started to match the puzzled expression that Amélie had no doubt was on her own face.

"Didn't you ask me to come?"

"No, I…" Christine's face blanched to an awful shade of bone-white. Amélie turned and saw Erik standing at the top of the stairs.

"Christine." He whispered her name reverently, softly, like a prayer.

"HOW COULD YOU!" Amélie stormed up the stairs, slapping him in the face so that she only got his exposed left cheek and didn't knock off his porcelain mask. "You go on and on about controlling yourself, and how you wouldn't… God, Erik, are you insane?!"

"Amélie—"

"I'm not finished! You're—"

"Amélie—"

"—being totally irresponsible, and—"

"AMÉLIE!" Erik grabbed her hands tightly. Amélie flushed, realizing she'd been flapping them around like some kind of demented bird. "Listen to me. She's not here for the reason you think."

"I'm… I'm not?" Amélie turned an even deeper shade of red as Christine spoke. She'd forgotten Christine was still standing in the doorway.

"No." Erik let go of Amélie and descended the stairs until he and Christine were face to face. He reached out and let the tips of his fingers lightly touch her cheek. "You're not here for me to claim you, Christine. I brought you here to ask two things."

"And what are they?" Christine asked, her features fixed in an unreadable expression. Amélie gripped the banister so hard her knuckles turned white and sucked in a breath. Erik lowered his hand and took a step back.

"The first request is for your forgiveness. For all the wrongs I have done you. I won't ask for the second if you don't deem me worthy of this."

Christine pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, making wrinkles in her smooth skin. The only sound in the room to Amélie seemed to be the thudding of her heart in her chest. _Say something_, she screamed in her head, _either forgive him or don't, but stop making us wait! This is worse than the wait on one of those bloody Lloyd Webber reality casting shows Alicia and Julie used to make me watch!_

"Do you understand what you are asking forgiveness for?" Christine asked, her tone unnaturally cold.

"For deceiving you. For ill-treating you."

"And?"

"Almost killing her, threatening to kill Raoul, killing two of her coworkers, causing her extreme psychological torment, kidnapping her, forcing her to be in your dreadfully dull opera, trying to force her to marry you—" Amélie ticked the reasons off her fingers. "And I'll leave my own grievances out of the mix, I'm under the impression that living with me is punishment enough for you."

"Amélie Cammelle, I'm convinced you could talk the ear off Lucifer himself if you were given the opportunity," Erik grumbled, glaring at her, "and he would consider it a worse Hell than the one he presides over."

"Erik." Christine said his name so softly, Amélie almost didn't hear it. "How… How can I blame you for wanting to be happy? For wanting kindness and love?"

"Probably because he went a totally wrong way about trying to get it," Amélie quipped, causing the others to both give her very sour looks. "Which doesn't mean he doesn't have some justification in his actions, or that he doesn't deserve forgiveness. That's up to you, he's your supplicant. I just live here."

"You are utterly impossible," Christine sighed, shaking her head. "But, yes, Erik. You have my forgiveness. Now, what was the other request?"

"Follow me. That means you, too, Amélie." He crooked his finger and both women followed him into the parlor, where a score was sitting on the piano.

"Oh," Christine whispered, rushing over and touching the music reverently. "Erik, is this new?"

"Yes." Erik answered, sitting down at the bench. "I would like it very much if the two of you were to sing this tonight at the ball."

"Aw, I thought the season was over," Amélie pouted. "And that I was done with singing."

"Nonsense, I've already set aside two and three-quarter hours every day for us to keep your voice in appropriate condition," Erik remarked. Amélie made a sound comparable to a bag of cats being hit with a large stick, which made Christine giggle and Erik roll his eyes. "Amélie, please stop being difficult and just come here so I can warm the two of you up."

* * *

><p>The three of them practiced for hours until Amélie and Christine had every note and word ringing through their bodies. When they'd finished, Amélie retreated to her room to prepare for the end of season gala, and Erik walked Christine to the door. "Thank you," he said, taking her hand and gently squeezing it. Christine smiled graciously and squeezed back.<p>

"You're welcome, Erik. And I can't wait for everyone to hear it tonight, it's magnificent."

"A fitting last farewell, I think," he murmured.

"Last?" she repeated.

"There's no longer a place for me in your life, Christine. We both know it."

"It's selfish of me to want you still there, isn't it?" she asked guiltily.

"Incredibly so. But there are those few fond memories we have from… before. And we have this evening. And you have Raoul." He took a breath. "I cannot be a part in your life, Christine, because I am a far more selfish person than you. If I were to have you, I would require all of you, and I know you can never give me that. You are no longer the wide eyed child whose voice I shaped, you've grown. You are your own woman, and I... I must respect you for that. But I will never forget you."

"Nor I you." She bit her lip, then looked him in the eye and gave him a small smile of bemusement. "Amélie's done more for you than I ever could have."

"I know she has. You should go now, and get ready, too."

"You're right. Shall I see you this evening at the Opera, then, Monsieur Cammelle?"

"I believe you shall…" he paused, and used a name he'd been avoiding for months now. "Madame de Chagny."

"Until then." Christine slipped out the door and Erik closed it behind her. He exhaled heavily, and climbed upstairs. His formalwear was lying neatly on the bed, and he dressed quickly before unwrapping the bandages on his face. Ever since he'd barged in on Amélie with his face uncovered, he'd taken a few moments every day to stare at himself in a small square mirror. And slowly, he was growing used to it. There was always an initial shudder when he first looked, but every time, it seemed to get shorter.

"Hey, Erik, can you help me?" Amélie called from down the hall. "I'm having some trouble with the back."

"Just a moment." He set down the mirror and walked out to her doorway. "Are you decent?"

"Yes, not that it matters, since you've seen me naked, I'll remind you."

"I try very hard to forget," he muttered, pushing the door open.

"Is it too much?" Amélie asked, spinning slowly. Erik let out a low gasp of appreciation. Her long blonde hair had been brushed to the point of shining, and covered the skin exposed by the gown's open back. Amélie had been insistent about not letting him see her gown, and Erik could now concede it was worth the wait, as well as the money. The bodice and overskirt were made of a pale blue silk, the same color as the music box sitting on her vanity, and decorated with darker blue beading, the fabric of the overskirt cut into petals to reveal the nearly-white underskirt. The bodice had a pointed stomacher of the same material as the underskirt, gathered together by eleven gleaming gold clasps. A matching jewelry set lay waiting on the vanity, consisting of a drop-necklace, earrings, and tiara, all made of gold and set with blue stones.

"You look stunning," he whispered. "Spin around, I'll get the back."

"Thank you." Amélie gathered her hair away from her back, letting him get at the laces of the dress. Erik deftly wove them up, tying them off between her shoulder blades. "Now I can get started on my hair."

"Do you need my help for that?"

"No, I'll be fine. You take care of your face. I don't mind, but I think it's not a look you want to be wearing around members of the company."

"Touché," Erik said dryly. "I'll leave you to your own devices, then."

* * *

><p>Amélie swallowed as Erik helped her out of the carriage. "I feel dizzy," she confessed timidly, fidgeting with her long white gloves. "Really, really dizzy."<p>

"Just breathe." Erik reached up to straighten her tiara and kissed her forehead. "You look magnificent. And this is a night for celebration. You have no reason to be nervous."

"It's not nervousness, it's just a… feeling." Amélie protested. "Something's going to happen, I can feel it."

"Well, then shouldn't we find out what it is?" he asked, smiling at her. After a moment's hesitation, she smiled back.

"You're right. Let's go in." They climbed the stairs into the Opera House to find it transformed into a starlit fantasy world, every surface polished to the point of reflecting the candles that surrounded the guests milling about the grand staircase, and delicate crystal statues nestled into niches of the walls. "It's amazing," Amélie gawked appreciatively. "How did the staff get all this done in one day?"

"I offered a thousand francs to whomever got the most done," Erik revealed, smiling. "And I gave that bonus to every one of them."

"You philanthropist," Amélie chuckled. "How did Henri take that?"

"After the profits from this year? Barely noticed. Speaking of Henri, I need to go find him. Will you be able to keep yourself busy until ten?"

"Easily." She kissed him on the cheek and skirted around the edge of the hall, trying to spot Daniel through the crowd of people laughing, toasting and dancing.

"Mademoiselle Amélie, isn't it?" She turned to see the angular face of Philippe de Chagny peering down at her.

"Indeed it is, Monsieur le Comte," she answered, smiling gently. "Are your brother and his wife here as well?"

"Somewhere," Philippe said dismissively. "But I'd rather hoped to claim you for a dance before the Marquis de Poigny monopolizes you as he did at their wedding."

"I'm afraid I already promised him he could do exactly that," Amélie replied, feigning regret. "But I'm sure La Sorelli would be more than happy to oblige you. Or Meg. You do remember Meg, don't you? She's a divine dancer. Both of them are."

"Hmph." Philippe huffed, but Amélie noticed him marching off towards the prima ballerina as he did, and giggled to herself.

"Something amusing, Mam'selle?" She turned, feeling a tap on her shoulder.

"Daniel!" she squealed, throwing her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek.

"I leave you alone for one minute, and suddenly, Philippe de Chagny is trying to sink his teeth into you!"

"Believe me, you've no competition," she promised.

"Dance with me, then," he said, twirling her effortlessly under his arm and making her laugh again as they moved onto the dance floor. "I'll give you a warning now, I'm collecting on that promise we agreed on."

"Whatever it is, can it wait until after ten?" Amélie asked. "Christine and I are performing then."

"What are you performing?"

"Oh, it's this little piece that we found in an antique shop. It's absolutely charming." Amélie explained, giving the explanation Erik had suggested.

"Then I'll collect once you two are done." Daniel promised. Amélie nodded, the feeling of anticipation heightening in her stomach.

"For now, let's enjoy ourselves, all right?" she asked.

"Of course, my love." Daniel kissed her, on the mouth this time, stopping them in the middle of the floor. Amélie went lax, leaning deeper into him until someone behind them cleared their throat.

"If you two aren't too busy—"

"Raoul! Lovely to see you again!" Amélie let go of Daniel to hug the waiting vicomte.

"And you!" he chuckled, hugging her back before releasing her to embrace Daniel. "Quite an event this is. I'd say it surpasses the Masquerade from New Year's. And anything we had in London."

"Oh, Raoul, don't be unkind, London throws lovely functions," Christine scolded, seeming to instantly materialize at her husband's arm.

"They're nice, Christine, but they're not _French_."

"Some things never truly change," Amélie laughed to herself, thinking of all the times her friends had begged to know about French parties.

"What was that?" Raoul asked.

"Just me talking to myself, never mind it. How are you? Lack of proper functions aside?"

"Quite well, I think we've learned to adapt to London very well. You were right, Amélie, it does have its charms."

"I told you so," she said smugly. "Has anyone got the time?"

"It's a few minutes to ten," Christine answered. "That's why we interrupted you, dear. I'm sorry about that."

"Oh, no, it's perfectly all right, we wouldn't want my brother losing his head." Amélie took Christine's arm. "I'll tell him to allow for a few minutes afterwards, Daniel. For whatever it was you wanted."

"I won't forget," Daniel called as the two women headed to the landing of the Grande Escalier. Emmeline and Jerome waved as they passed, having just finished a duet from _Romeo et Juliette. _Erik smiled down at them from the balcony where the orchestra was situated. Christine lowered her gaze, smiling faintly. As the first few chords of Erik's madrigal began, Amélie and Christine turned outwards, and Christine began.

_"La chanson, elle fait écho doucement, cette mélodie d'une pureté si belle, à l'origine de cette brousse à la vie, une rose parfaite à se former." _Amélie had forgotten just how glorious Christine sounded when she sang, and hearing her friend's voice now gave her shivers._ "Le prix à payer? Une épine enfoncée dans ce cœur de pureté; si pur ce cœur doux: un prix précieux à payer."_

Amélie almost missed her cue in taking the chance to look at Erik, but the expression on his face reminded her, and she sang,_"Pour au nom de l'amour a été formé un rose si rouge, si rare. Sa chanson qu'elle a chanté toute la nuit si longtemps: 'La lune blanche entendue, et elle oublia l'aube.' Elle pressa jusqu'à ce que l'épine si forte perça ce cœur à plumes doux; à déborder son sang pour former lentement une rose, si rouge, si rare."_ The music was lush, intricate, and she could see it wrapping its way around every guest. No one was dancing or talking, they were simply watching, spellbound as Christine took over again.

_"Et comme sa chanson d'amour a grandi faible; comme elle a grandi encore plus faible, son sang de la vie renversé et a grandi lentement la Rose. L'aube approchait pour accélérer son effort; elle pressa l'épine encore plus difficile de sa poitrine, de peur que cette rose d'amour soit moins que parfait formé." _Noticing Amélie looking at her, she smiled widely and offered her hand. Amélie took it, grinning back at her, and sang the next verse.

_"Comme plus sauvage a grandi son chant si doux de l'amour, aussi amer augmenté sa douleur, comme sa vie, il a reflué, donné naissance lentement cette mort qui ne voulait pas mourir. Appelle l'amour. Un coeur a grandi, l'autre est décédé."_

The two women sang the last verse, and Amélie felt her heart soar with the music._"Borne sur le vent cette mélodie de la chanson, cette chanson si doux, si pur, de provoquer à la vie. Cette rose de sang, de l'amour, de la douleur et des larmes; pourtant si facilement jeté dans un caniveau par une personne qui ne pouvait pas comprendre le prix de l'amour qui a donné naissance à travers la douleur et de la chanson douce mélodie sous la lune. 'La lune blanche entendue, et elle oublia l'aube.'"_

As the final notes fell away, the entire foyer burst into thunderous applause. Christine raised Amélie's hand in hers and they both bowed before gesturing to Erik, who smiled softly, but waved the applause back to them. Christine kissed Amélie's cheek before hurrying down into her husband's waiting arms. Amélie was about to follow suit, when Daniel climbed up the stairs and took her hand.

"Could I have your attention for a moment, please?" he asked the crowd, before turning back to Amélie. "I count myself as the luckiest man alive to even know you, and even more fortunate to know that you care for me as I care for you. And now…" Amélie squeaked as he bent down on one knee. "Amélie Cammelle, will you make me the happiest man in creation, and marry me?" He produced a sparkling marquise-cut diamond ring from inside his coat.

For one moment, Amélie stood in silent awe, and then, a single word came from her mouth: "Yes." Daniel grinned and slid the ring on her finger as he stood and kissed her deeply. The cheers from the crowd started again, but Amélie didn't hear them as she stood on the landing, deep in the arms of the man she'd never expected to love.

* * *

><p>Author's note: While there is actually a Russian opera based on the Oscar Wilde short story of 'The Nightingale and the Rose,' that opera was not written until the 1990s, which would have made it anachronistic. The text used in the duet for Christine and Amélie is a Google Translation into French of a poem based on the Wilde story, by Odysseym on allpoetry dot com, which is why it may seem odd. The URL is below, simply remove the spaces and replace the dot with… a dot. You're intelligent people, you can do it without my explaining it.<p>

Allpoetry dot com / poem / 6891975 - The - Nightingale - and - the - Rose - by - Odysseym


	25. Getting Down to Business

**_July 2, 1882_**

"This is complete and utter insanity!" Daniel declared, walking into the Cammelle house.

"SHUT THE DOOR!" Erik and Amélie yelled, scrambling to push it shut themselves before a reporter could get inside.

"Daniel, your jacket!" Amélie exclaimed as they managed to lock the door. "It's torn!"

"It's your own fault for having such a public engagement," Erik said unsympathetically.

"Oh, hush." Amélie snapped. "Come on, love, give me your jacket, I can fix it."

"Really?" Daniel sounded impressed as he removed his coat and handed it to her.

"Mm-hmm. I did my own costume for the New Year's Masquerade, too."

"A lady of hidden talents."

"Enough flirting, you two," Erik barked, settling back in his armchair.

"Spoilsport," grumbled Amélie, going to fetch her sewing kit and sitting on the ottoman by the sofa as she measured out a length of black thread. Daniel chuckled and sat behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder as she worked.

"You do realize how difficult it's now going to be to plan out your departure if the press is always following you two around?" Erik snapped.

"Bah, you don't need to worry. They're interested in us, not in your little meth lab."

"Meth lab?" Daniel repeated.

"I'll explain later," Amélie promised.

"I pity you having to learn all these bizarre little references she makes."

"I think they sound intriguing," Daniel countered. "Why was it so important that I come here today?"

"Because we need to discuss plans for how the two of you are going to disappear in two months." Erik stood, marched over to the windows and closed every set of curtains systematically until the room was in shadows.

"You're making me strain my eyes," nagged Amélie. "Needlework is difficult enough in good light, you just put me at a disadvantage!"

"Bah, that's not a priority," Erik scoffed.

"Don't be so rude to her." Daniel protectively placed his other hand on Amélie's shoulder.

"Daniel, you needn't baby me."

"Sorry." He released his grip on her. "What plan did you have in mind?"

"Amélie and I had previously discussed the idea of feigning a boat accident of some kind, where the both of you would drown. However, there's no guarantee that would work the way I want it to. Too many variables. If there were to be a fire consuming the house, it would be unlikely that I could survive where you two could not, and it would not be acceptable for me to leave you alone in the house."

"We're already engaged, what does it matter now?" Amélie whined. Erik jabbed a finger at her stomach, and Amélie groaned. "Come on! Even if he did knock me up, there's no way it'd be showing. Not at this point. Pregnancy is not that noticeable at three months!"

"It is when a woman is wearing a corset," Daniel said gently. "I'm sorry, Amélie, but he's right."

"No faaaaaaaaair," Amélie muttered, pricking a finger on her needle. She stuck the bleeding tip in her mouth and sucked at the blood.

"That's repulsive," Erik scolded.

"I haven't got a plaster. Sue me, and then, tell us what genius new plan you've come up with."

"We're still drowning you."

"Wait, I thought you said we weren't going to be drowned," Daniel said.

"Not the both of you." Erik walked over to his desk, and pulled two small vials out of the drawer. "Just Amélie. I've been working on these for quite some time."

"How do you know if they work?" Amélie asked, raising an eyebrow. Erik pursed his lips. "Oh, for the love of all things holy, please tell me these have been tested."

"Well, yes. They have. I just wasn't certain how to phrase the fact that I tested them on asylum inmates."

"You did _what_?" Amélie stabbed her finger again. "Ow! Daniel, be a lamb and find me a thimble in there, would you?"

"Right away, chérie." Daniel started looking through the sewing kit as Amélie turned back to Erik.

"How can you even consider such a thing? It's inhuman!"

"Where do you expect me to be able to find a place where I can bribe officials into letting me do tests _and_ keep quiet about who I am and what I'm doing?"

"That's utterly deplorable!" Amélie insisted as Daniel placed a thimble in her hand. "Thank you, darling."

"Moral differences aside, what did you learn, Erik?" he asked.

"Like I said, we're still drowning Amélie." Erik held up one of the vials. A small purple orb rattled inside. "This immediately brings about the deception that a person has drowned, and simulates death for a period of three days."

"So, I swallow this just as I'm having an 'accident.'" Amélie set down her work to make air quotes, feeling ridiculously dated the minute she did so. "That's the plan? I trip and fall in the Seine, swallowing that pill before I fall in?"

"Ah, so that wit of yours is useful after all."

"Did you just backhandedly call me an idiot?"

"Please don't start fighting," Daniel interrupted. "So, Amélie fakes her death, but then what? Surely, her body would be recovered from the Seine, wouldn't it? Especially if it's in broad daylight?"

"Of course it would. Which is where more bribery comes in. Amélie's body will be recovered, yes, but, as her brother, I'll be responsible for making sure all her funeral details are in order."

"You're going to bribe the undertaker to keep him from cutting me open and removing my organs."

"Such tact, Amélie, you should be a politician."

"Erik, do not patronize me, I'm not in the mood. Is that what were you planning, or no?"

"Yes, it was. Now, stop interrupting me, or I may slap you again."

"Oh, hallelujah, I can get another split tongue."

"He split your tongue?!" Daniel gawked.

"I sassed him, he hit me, and I bit my tongue so hard it split," Amélie explained. "I couldn't speak for ages."

"Your own fault," muttered Erik.

"Git on wi' it," Amélie snapped, giving her best Monty Python impression. "You bribe the undertaker, then what?"

"I replace you with an automaton."

"Oh, god, Erik, not again! The last one was bloody creepy!"

"The last one?"

"Trust me, Daniel, you don't want to know," Amélie warned. "Just get my measurements from the costumers this time, got it?"

"As you wish," Erik promised. "I've as little wish to repeat that particular experience as you do."

"Do I want to—"

"No, you don't," Erik and Amélie said in unison, and Daniel exhaled slowly.

"Then tell me what we do after Amélie's 'corpse' is found." He imitated Amélie's finger quotes, which suddenly made the gesture adorable. "Surely, you have more to this plan."

"What state are your affairs currently in?" Erik asked abruptly.

"Answer my question first. My estate can be handled easily, my apparent death cannot."

"Tell me, do you think people would believe you in love enough that you'd kill yourself if you were to lose Amélie?" Erik held up the second vial, filled with a white powder.

"Is that—"

"Remarkably similar to cyanide, but not deadly."

"Where on earth would he get cyanide?" Amélie argued.

"You, of all people, should know men in love have ways of getting what they want with frightening skill," Erik reminded her.

"It won't kill me, though."

"Of course not. This lasts about two days, slightly less than Amélie. I pull the same switch of the bodies, and you two will wake up in the catacombs by the lake."

"It feels risky, and I think you're asking us to put a great deal of trust in you," Daniel remarked. "And to place our lives in your hands."

"You're right. I am."

"I don't know how comfortable I am with that. I've kept your secret for this long because of Amélie. But I don't feel I can trust you enough not to kill me."

"And there's nothing I can do to change that," Erik said dismissively. "I've come to terms with that. So, if you will not trust me, then trust Amélie, because we cannot keep having this conversation every time we talk."

"What happens if something goes wrong?" Amélie spoke so softly, it was a wonder both men even heard her. They stared at her as if she'd spoken an alien language. "It's a good plan, Erik, but only if everything goes exactly the way you want it to. How do you make certain it does?"

"You have had the misfortune of only seeing me on my bad planning days, Amélie. Despite what you think, I'm an excellent strategist, and I can handle this."

"But if—"

"Hush." Erik commanded with such force that Amélie clapped her mouth shut. "And trust that I will take care of it, little one."

"Call me little one again, and you'll be the one who needs to be taken care of," she threatened, tying off her thread and snipping it decisively.

"Spitfire," Erik remarked delicately. "Perhaps you should start teaching Daniel what he'll need to know to live in your era."

"You're trying to dodge questions, prat-face."

"_I'll think of something._" He made it sound more like a threat than a promise. "Leave me alone, and let me do my work." With that, he strode into his study, leaving Amélie and Daniel alone.

"Let's open the curtains, shall we? It's awfully dark in here," Daniel suggested diplomatically.

"Is he insane?" Amélie ranted. "Does he really think it's that easy to make an adjustment to a new century? It took me months to adapt properly, and that's because I had some semblance of knowledge of how—"

"I'm sure you'll be an excellent teacher and I can adapt just as well," Daniel soothed.

"Oh, so now you're taking his side?" she grumbled.

"Not at all. I'm simply trying to help you be confident in your abilities."

"Brown-nose," she teased as he opened the last set of curtains and came back to the couch.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It means flatterer. I'll write up a list of terms and phrases you should be comfortable with, and give it to you tomorrow. For now, why don't you just ask me questions? Ask me anything you wish."

"I've no idea where to start."

"Just ask something. Off the top of your head. Anything at all."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a journalist. A reporter. People come to me and ask me to write about a certain subject, and I do, for a fee."

"What sort of things have you written about?"

"I did a piece on Frankenstein a while back. I've done articles on acid attacks, and wars, and starvation. I've interviewed presidents and actors. But I'm best known for a piece I did early on in my career, about the need for feminism to continue in modern society."

"Feminism?"

"Feminism is a social reform movement that's been coming and going in waves, but its main principle is that all people are equal, and it works to remedy inequalities, particularly for women. You've no idea how much torture it's been for me to be so docile and compliant here." Daniel raised an eyebrow and snorted. "You? Docile and compliant?"

"You should see me in my own time. A man once slapped me on the rear in a bar, and I retaliated by hitting him over the head with a beer bottle. I'd never do something like that here."

"You were in a bar without an escort?"

"That's part of the point of feminism, Daniel. That I should be able to go where I please without having to bring an escort, and without having to worry some boor is going to assault me."

"I see."

"You don't agree with that?"

"Amélie, it's an awful lot to expect me to just agree with you whenever you say something, especially something I don't understand."

"Not whenever I say something, just… just… well, what if we were to have a daughter someday? And she were simply walking down the street, minding her own business, dressed modestly, and some brute decided to rape her?"

"That'd be despicable!"

"And you'd want justice, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would—"

"But suppose, we were to find this person," Amélie interrupted, "and take him to court for his crimes, and people were more interested in asking what our daughter was wearing. What she'd been doing. If she had provoked him. If she'd wanted him to molest her. What then?"

"I'd be outraged—"

"But you wouldn't be able to do anything about it, because that's not how modern society works. More often than not, the victims are the ones blamed for someone else committing the crime."

"Are you certain you really want to go back? So far, everything you've told me doesn't make the future sound enjoyable."

"Well, there are some things that are enjoyable. There are movies. And the internet."

"The what?"

"The internet. It's… ah… Damn." Amélie bit her lip. "It's… ah… There are these little boxes called computers. They store information, and they can be used to access the internet, which is like a web of.." Amélie rambled on for nearly an hour, trying to explain the intricacies of the internet, Daniel listening patiently as she did.

"Amélie?" Erik emerged from his study. "It's time to let Daniel go home."

"But I was just getting to the part about social media!" Amélie protested.

"I'll be coming back tomorrow," Daniel reminded her. "You can tell me about the book of faces then."

"It's not the book of faces, it's _Facebook_," Amélie corrected.

"Regardless, I'll be here." He kissed her cheek. "You can make that list you offered."

"Homework. I hate homework," grumbled Amélie, making him laugh and kiss her again.

"I'll see you tomorrow." He promised, retrieving his coat and heading out the door.

"I don't know how I'm going to teach him things in a few months that I took years to learn," Amélie confessed. Erik strode over to her and ruffled her hair.

"He has a good teacher," he soothed.

"Really? Can you give me their name?"

"Cheeky." Erik tugged at her hair, making her shriek and swat him upside the head.

* * *

><p>An: This would be what is called the author projecting. In this case, Amélie's views on feminism and rape culture are derived very heavily from my own, and the Tumblr feminist movement. Ugh, this took me forever.


	26. Back to the Future

**_September 30, 2011_**

"Anny-Ammy, Anny-Ammy!"

"Shhh, m'girl," Angelica bounced her daughter on her knee. "We're gonna see Aunty Ammy really soon, I promise."

"Where is she?" the little girl demanded, pouting and pointing at James. "Grumpy bear man said she'd be here."

"Grumpy bear man?" James sputtered.

"She's a little girl," Alicia soothed, passing him another mug of _chocolat_. "I'm 'chubby happy lady' if it makes you feel any better."

"I guess it does kind of suit you. The happy part anyway."

"Why, thank you. Charles, Alex, how're you holding up?"

"Checking the power levels," Alex called from his makeshift worktable, his brogue getting thicker as he muttered to himself. Charles leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the screen and murmuring softly.

"Papaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

"_Pas maintenant, Aurore_." Charles told his daughter. "_Papa est occupé_. For the love of God, _Angelique_, I thought we agreed it was too late for her to stay up."

"You shouldn't have mentioned Ammy within earshot of her, then," Angelica retorted. "Honestly, Charles, it's like you don't know your own daughter!"

"ANNY-AMMYYYYYY!"

"Put a sock in your kid's feckin' mouth, will ya!" Alex yelled.

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 19, 1882<em>**

"You better have a really good reason for this," Amélie muttered, shifting from one foot to the other as Erik led her up the stairs. "I could've been spending this time with Daniel."

"Trust me, you will not regret this," he told her, knocking on the door. An elderly lady opened the door.

"He is not taking visitors, Monsieur."

"Tell him Sébastien is here, Juliette. He will see me."

"Him who?" Amélie asked in English as Juliette went back inside. "Who was that?"

"You'll see," Erik said vaguely. Amélie stuck out her tongue at him, fuming. A moment later, Juliette came back and opened the door to allow them in. "_Merci_. Come, sister." He led her into the rooms, all darkly lit, and approached an armchair that was facing a window. "Victor?"

"Make this quick, my dear Sébastien, you know full well I prefer solitude."

"I've brought my sister."

"Sister, eh? How old?"

"Twenty-four, monsieur," Amélie answered.

"Twenty-four, hmm? Let me see you." A wrinkled hand reached out. Erik nudged Amélie forward. Through the light of the window's closed shutters, Amélie made out a white bearded face resting on the other hand. "What are you staring at?" the man asked gruffly.

"Victor… Victor Hugo?" she realized.

"That I am. What did you say your name was?" the author inquired.

"I didn't, Monsieur Hugo. And it is Amélie."

"Amélie," he repeated. "Twenty-four, eh? Married, then? My older girl was. Bless the poor child's soul, my poor Léopoldine."

"_Demain, dès l'aube_," Amélie whispered.

"You do know my works, then?"

"Oh, Monsieur, there is not a person in the world who does not know your works," Amélie told him earnestly. "Your books will last forever."

"I hope not, child," Hugo remarked. "For that would mean there would still be suffering in the world forever."

"Or just that they are wonderful stories."

"Truly wonderful stories have meaning in the world. For my books to have meaning, there must be suffering and tragedy."

"I don't know about that, Monsieur," Amélie whispered, placing her hand on his. "But I do know this, the world will remember you for all time." The old author smiled at her softly.

"If you truly believe so, my young mademoiselle. Sébastien, where have you been hiding this sister of yours? I like her."

"Victor, if you would ever actually read the programs when you came to the Opera, you'd know Amélie is our leading soprano."

"Oh, that's you, is it? You made a charming Fiordiligi in _Cosí_. Rather like how I pictured Cosette."

"Thank you." Amélie blushed furiously. _Victor Hugo just complimented me. He just compared me to Cosette. _"That means a lot to me, Monsieur Hugo."

"You like Cosette?"

"Very much so! Cosette is my favorite character!"

Hugo smiled at her again. "You come here again, my young mademoiselle Amélie, you hear me? I like you. And I should like to see more of you, if you can stand an old man."

"The honor would be all mine," Amélie said breathlessly.

"Though perhaps another time, Victor," interrupted Erik. "She does have a prior engagement with her fiancé, as she was _so _eager to remind me earlier." Amélie glared at him furiously. "Oh, now you're cross with me?"

"Go on, my dear. Love is a precious thing," Victor interjected. "But do come again, I insist."

"We will," Erik told him, taking Amélie by the elbow and guiding her towards the door. "Perhaps we'll even manage to lure you out for the wedding."

"Bah. You're welcome to try," the author chuckled. "I mean it, young Amélie. Come back and see me. I should like to hear your thoughts on my books in more detail."

"I should like to share my thoughts on your books in more detail," Amélie replied before Erik pushed her out the door. "You know Victor Hugo!" she gasped. "I just met the most famous French author of all time, and… oh, my God."

"I thought you might be impressed." Erik smirked at her.

"How do you know him? How does someone become friends with Victor Hugo?"

"Ah, come now, sister dear, I'm not about to give away all my secrets," Erik teased. "It's been an acquaintance of several years, however. Sébastien did exist before you created a fake brother."

"Well, I knew that. I saw a letter in your old grotto addressed to Sébastien. That's why I used it for my fake brother," she retorted. "But… why? You know it's all ending tomorrow."

"I do. Which is why I thought it best to have you meet him with as little opportunity to become attached as possible."

"That seems cruel."

"You might still reconsider your options. Stay here, marry Daniel, become the Marquise de Poigny—"

"You know I won't."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"I… I don't know."

"You might be even more of a fool than I am, if that's the case."

* * *

><p><strong><em>EXCERPT FROM THE EVENING EDITION OF THE ECHO, SEPTEMBER 20, 1882<em>**

_This afternoon, Mlle. Amélie Cammelle, the latest ingenue of the Paris Opéra and fiancée of the Marquis de Poigny, lost her balance on the Pont du Choice and was claimed by the waters of the Seine. Police retrieved her body from the river within minutes, but the young soprano was already past help. _

* * *

><p><strong><em>EXCERPT FROM THE EVENING EDITION OF THE ECHO, SEPTEMBER 21, 1882<em>**

_Paris has, this day, suffered its second tragic loss. Less than a day after the drowning of his fiancée, Mlle. Amélie Cammelle, Marquis Daniel d'Angennes-Poigny was found dead beside the body of the woman who was to have been his wife._

_ There is no denying that the beloved young soprano's death was a tragic accident of fate, but it seems that the Marquis chose to follow his intended to the grave, a feat worthy of any opera. M. Sébastien Cammelle, manager of the Opéra Populaire and elder brother to the late ingenue, has released the following statement for our readers._

There are no words I can use to properly articulate the regret that I feel. The loss of my sister was painful enough, but the fact that the man I would have called brother was so devastated as to have taken his own life is even more upsetting. I feel some measure of responsibility in all of this, as he did so in my home.

Out of respect for both my sister and the man she loved, the Opéra Populaire will be giving a memorial concert on the twenty-fourth of this month, following their funeral services. No further comments will be given by the management regarding this tragedy.

S. Cammelle

_M. Cammelle's partner, Henri Larocque has similarly refused to offer any words on the subject, but Mlle. Meg Giry, of the corps de ballet, was willing to share some remarks:"The real tragedy is that this isn't at all surprising. They adored one another, I don't believe the Marquis would have ever been whole again without Amélie. I hope that they are together in Heaven. It is what they deserve."_

* * *

><p><strong><em>September 23, 1882<em>**

Amélie was back in her nightmare of drowning, burning, and falling. But this time, someone caught her as her eyes opened. "Hello, Aimée," Daniel said softly, his warm brown eyes looking into hers.

"Daniel." She wrapped her arms around him tightly. "We're alive. Oh, thank God." After a brief moment in his embrace, she pulled away to take a look at their surroundings.

They were in the grotto Erik had given her back when she had first arrived. Amélie's modern clothes lay neatly folded in the far corner. And standing over the clothes was Erik, who had apparently cast aside all traces of his Sébastien persona, because he looked exactly as he had the day Amélie had first awoken in the caverns beneath the lake.

"Welcome back." He bent down and picked up the clothes, tossing them to Amélie, who caught them easily. "We have perhaps ten minutes before midnight, best you change quickly, Amélie. Daniel, if you'll come with me, we'll oversee our own final preparations."

"Right." Daniel kissed Amélie quickly before standing and following Erik out of the cavern. Amélie stripped off the simple white dress she'd been put in, followed by her shift, corset and petticoats.

After a year away from them, underpants, bras, t-shirts and blue jeans suddenly made her feel oddly naked and confined at the same time. They all fit so snugly against her body, but they were deliciously soft and breathable, giving her more mobility than anything she'd worn in the past twelve months. After she'd pulled on her jacket and shouldered her computer bag, she stepped out to the main grotto, where Erik and Daniel were waiting by the water's edge. When he saw her, Daniel's jaw dropped a little, making Erik give one of his trademark eerie grins.

"All except for the hair, you look exactly as you did when you first showed up on my shores," he said. Amélie rolled her eyes, smacking him upside the head with her free hand. Quick as ever, Erik caught her wrist and ran a knife over the pad of her palm, flicking the scarlet drops into the water. "The wires."

"Right…" Trying not to smear blood on her things, Amélie pulled her old iPod Classic out of her bag and turned it on before pulling it open and dropping it in the water. Sparks began to fly as a whirlpool spun into existence. Erik cut Daniel's palm in the same place he had Amélie.

"Quickly now, there's a very small window of opportunity," he told them as Daniel's blood began to mingle with Amélie's. "Daniel… Good luck to you."

"Thank you. And to you as well," Daniel replied, smiling softly. "I do mean it. Thank you."

"I believe you." Erik turned to Amélie. "You… You have quite a future ahead of you, Amélie. And I believe you might have given me one as well. I know you are sick of hearing it, but you are a remarkable woman. More than remarkable." He pulled her close in a gentle embrace, whispering in her ear. "You are the Opera Shadow, Amélie. The one at the edge of the light and the dark, of fantasy and reality. And I thank you. Go on now."

Amélie lifted the corner of his mask and kissed his cheek. "A_u revoir, mon frère. Vous êtes vraiment l'ange de la musique._" She took her fiancé's uncut hand and stepped into the water. There was a roar and a bang, and as the water swallowed them, the last thing Amélie saw was Erik smiling at her.

* * *

><p><strong><em>October 1, 2011<em>**

"Papa! Momma! Grumpy bear man! Lookit! Lookit!" Aurora squirmed in her mother's lap, pointing a finger at the water. James rolled his eyes at the toddler's antics

"Oh, my God, she's right." Alicia shot up and ran to the lagoon's edge. The blue was becoming stained with red, and a moment later, two figures shot up from beneath the surface, landing on the shore. "_AMMY!_"

"Amélie?" James rose and approached hesitantly as the smaller figure sat up coughing. It _was _her… albeit with long blonde hair. "Oh, my God."

"Hi…" she said, smiling weakly. "Did you miss m… oh… Daniel!" She turned to the person beside her, prodding at his shoulders as she switched to French. "_Daniel… Daniel_, _je vous en prie, Daniel…_" When he didn't respond, she raised his head and pressed her mouth to his. The man's hand twitched to life, wrapping around her waist. Amélie pulled away and smacked him across the face. "You scared me to death!"

"I hope you'll forgive me." The man, Daniel, apparently, rubbed his jaw contritely.

"Ammy, what's going on?" Angelica interrupted, putting Aurora on her hip and approaching her sister. "Who's the hottie?"

"Daniel," Amélie stood and pulled her dark-haired companion up beside her. "May I present my twin sister, Angelica L'Ange, and my niece, Aurora. Angel, this is Daniel, my fiancé_._" Angelica let out a loud squeal and hugged her sister tightly. "Let go!_" _Amélie wriggled away. "Please, give us a little space."

"It's all over, thank God," Charles muttered from his seat.

"But how? That's what I'm curious about," Alex interjected.

"All of that can wait," Alicia said. "I think right now, what these two need is the chance to rest. Especially since Ammy has to be in London tonight."

"Ohgodtheconcert!"Amélie blurted, gripping Daniel's arm a little tighter. Daniel leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Surprisingly, the wave of jealousy James had been expecting to rise in his stomach didn't rise. Amélie's smile no longer had the power to sway him.

"The Crawley jet is at your disposal," he offered. "It'll be much faster, we can get you there in plenty of time."

"Monsieur le Marquis should stay here, however," Charles announced, standing up and walking over to Daniel. "I have certain materials for him. And for you, Amélie, when you return. But right now, I agree, bed is the best choice. Particularly for a certain someone." He gave his daughter a very pointed look, and Aurora whimpered, burying her face in her mother's neck.

"Bed sounds nice," Amélie admitted, leaning against Alicia drowsily before mumbling something in French to Daniel.

**_October 3, 2011_**

"Done. James, can you leave Alicia's photos for a second and come review this?" Amélie beckoned her impromptu editor over to take a look. James complied, taking the seat on Amélie's left, since the one on the right was occupied by Daniel, who had been sitting and watching patiently as Amélie had typed furiously through the night to produce her final draft, the shortest time she'd ever taken to write something. On the screen, three pages of text stared at her, half of it copied over from her journal.

_In September of 1911, a small novel circulated around France, based on true events that had occurred at the Paris Opera. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, written by Gaston Leroux, would have faded into obscurity had it not been for director Carl Laemmle's 1925 silent film adaptation, starring Lon Chaney, Sr., Mary Philbin, and Norman Kerry. Since then, the Phantom's legend has been adapted countless times, most famously in Andrew Lloyd Webber's beloved musical, which this year celebrates its twenty-fifth year running in London's famed West End. But what is the true depth of what passed in the arches of the Palais Garnier, a structure that resembles a train station from the outside, and a Turkish bath inside, to paraphrase Claude Debussy?_

_ I was graciously granted permission to explore the vaults that are believe to have been the Phantom's hideaway, but I found far more than my expectations. In many ways, the Phantom is both less and more than the legends of him, but one fact remains undeniably true. _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra vraiment existé._ He did indeed feel the most intense desire for life and for love, and he saw his escape in the young soprano, Christine Daaé._

_ I will spare you all a synopsis of the plot, because I am certain you know it in one form or another, and offer my commentary on the novel. It is no _Les Misérables, _that much is certain. Gaston Leroux, unlike his more famous countrymen, had a very factual and analytical style of writing, which I, as a journalist, very much appreciate. He approached the story as a mystery to be uncovered by the reader as the characters did. There was very little grand romanticism or wordy travelogues about Parisian sewers and the like. There has never been a particularly faithful adaptation to the original novel since the 1925 silent film, mainly due to the fact that Leroux's original story did not emphasize what the public wanted: A hopeless romance, a doomed love. People were infatuated with the idea of a monstrous man so in love with a beautiful young woman, that all later adaptations would focus more on the "love triangle" than the original had._

_ Of course, this story is more than a simple fairy tale about a prince, a princess, and a monster. As such, any adaptation of this work already has an immense task ahead of it, because they must have something that makes their adaptation unique. This may come in the form of a modernization, such as Brian dePalma's _The Phantom of the Paradise, _or a relocation, such as the adaptation starring Maximilian Schell and set in Hungary, or simply a rather innovative version of the Phantom's disfigurement, as utilised in the Charles Dance miniseries._

_ There is very little that is truly supernatural about the original Phantom story, save for its ambience, and the curious description of the Phantom. Most of the tricks are derived the techniques that modern magicians use: sleight of hand, ventriloquism, trap doors and the like. Depending upon which film adaptation one chooses to view, there may be elements of the more mystical macabre, commonly along the lines of Faustian deals and the like. If such things are to your liking, I recommend the adaptation from 1989, which stars Robert Englund as the Phantom, though one should be wary of that comes with the genre of 1980's horror films._

_ As I said before, most choose to focus on the competition for Christine's affections between her childhood playmate and love, Raoul de Chagny, and her mysterious teacher, the Phantom, also called Erik. The production to tap this resource most thoroughly is the Lloyd Webber musical, which has been called 'the world's most haunting love story.' The show boasts lush costumes, a clever set design, some of the most sumptuous and sweeping music ever composed (lawsuits over similarities in melodies notwithstanding, and its own peculiar brand of magic that has kept it circulating since its opening in London twenty-five years ago._

_ The performance at the Royal Albert Hall was truly a spectacle to behold, capturing most of the essence of Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, though I did not find the casting to be much to my liking. I found the three main leads, while charming offstage, lacked what I felt would have been proper understanding of the characters. However, this can be attributed just as much to direction as the actors' personal choices. _Phantom_ newcomer Hadley Fraser proved to be overly pompous and rough as Raoul, Sierra Boggess' performance seemed to me a very mechanical and contrived Christine, and Ramin Karimloo presented a Phantom far too belligerent and gritty. All three delivered decent vocal performances, though not dazzling. _

_ It was fairly clear that the selection of these three leads was to appeal to the general following of the musical, which is largely composed of overreactive 'phangirls,' who respond to stars with a high sex appeal. And menopausal women for whom that is doubly true. The fact that Boggess and Karimloo were reprising roles they originated in Lloyd Webber's truly bizarre sequel, _Love Never Dies_, only made the production more contrived and awkward. The true emotion of the performance derived from the energy of the ensemble and supporting cast, which far outstripped that of the leads._

_ I am no die-hard follower of this musical, but even I mourned the loss of many of Maria Bjørnson's stunning sets in exchange for obviously pixelated LCD backdrops, and the explosion of the chandelier was not nearly as frightening as I anticipated. However, even I was moved by the appearance of the original London cast, and the four Phantoms who sang the titular song with Sarah Brightman (who has aged quite gracefully both vocally and physically), followed by _Music of the Night._ Karimloo bowed to the original man in the mask, Michael Crawford, and the evening was complete. It is a night that will continue to live in theatrical history, and I was honoured to be a part of it, despite my personal opinions of the cast._

_ And now, I must reveal something no one else knows: what this story, and the Phantom, were to me. On the night I set foot in the cellars of the opera, a very strange set of circumstances threw me thirteen decades into the past, right into the middle of the world's most famous ghost story. _

_ How can I even begin to describe a man such as the infamous Phantom? I came to know Erik as my jailer, as my mentor, and, however improbably, eventually as my brother and friend. I will not claim that he was a good man, because when I met him, he was not. I bear the scars to prove that he was not about harming people. When he looked at us, he did not see individuals, he saw a mass of hatred, and tools he could use to achieve his ends. When we met, he forced me into a pact with him to help him on pain of death, and it was only with double-talk that I agreed._

_ But I believe this is what sets me apart from anyone else he had ever known: I never asked to see his face. I never asked him to remove his mask, and when I did see, it was an unplanned moment that ended up surprising both of us. I do not regret what I saw, because it only gave me a better understanding of the man behind the mask and the face that had caused so many people to shun him and despise him._

_ I fully realise how impossible this story seems. That is why this is to be my last piece as a journalist. I intend to release the record of my encounter with the Phantom as a memoir, which will be entitled _Opera Shadow_, after the name Erik gave me, the last thing he ever said to me: _"You are the Opera Shadow, Amélie. The one at the edge of the light and the dark, of fantasy and reality. And I thank you."

_My name is Amélie Cammelle. I am the Opera Shadow. And I thank all of you. _

"The last bit is a risk," James said finally. "But it'll sell copies. I suggest taking out the line about the phangirls and menopausal women, there's no need to alienate everyone. You're not a theatre critic, Amélie, and the tone disagrees with the rest of the piece."

"I thought it was funny."

"I think he has a point, Aimée," said Daniel. "It's rather like being in polite society. One must find a way to say certain things without being unpleasant."

"You're taking his side?" Amélie whined.

"I am trying to support your work and help you make it the best that it can be. And you do seem to cross the line into unkind."

"Let me see." Amélie highlighted the offensive passage, reworking it so that it read: _The main trio of Ramin Karimloo (the Phantom), Sierra Boggess (Christine) and _Phantom_ newcomer Hadley Fraser (Raoul) all offered very strong, emotion-driven performances, whilst still being suitably nuanced for the broadcast closeups for those not attending the performance live._

_ However, the leads seem to have been cast based more on their recognizability than anything else. Mr. Karimloo and Mr. Fraser are well known among the theatrical circuits as having been Enjolras and Grantaire in the 25th Anniversary Concert of _Les Misérables_ last year, and Ms. Boggess has a certain appeal to younger audiences as the original Little Mermaid on Broadway. Furthermore, Boggess and Karimloo were also pre-reprising roles they originated last year in Lloyd Webber's truly bizarre sequel, _Love Never Dies_, which would also explain the very apparent traces of foreshadowing for said sequel. The true beauty of the performance derived from the energy of the entire cast, all of whom clearly put in the full measure of their passion and drive to this project._

"Better?" she asked. The two men exchanged glances, then nodded. "James, I'm saving it to a memory stick now, can I trust you to get all of this past your father without him seeing?"

"Of course." James took the black plastic drive from her and slipped it in his coat pocket. "Thank you for everything, Amélie, we'll wire the payment to your account first thing in the morning, plus a bonus if the edition sells well."

"Mmm, you're a darling." Amélie murmured, leaning back at staring up at the ceiling for a moment. "And I'm spent. Daniel, can you pass me the _chocolat_?"

"Absolutely."

As Daniel pulled the silver pot across the table and refilled her mug, Amélie looked up at him inquisitively. "So, what was it my arse of a brother-in-law wanted to talk to you about whilst I endured hours of show tunes?"

"Charles had a collection of documents at his home. An entire identity for me to assume. Erik thought of everything, it seems."

"Oh, my clever brother," Amélie smiled wistfully. "Let me see them." Daniel handed over a passport for her inspection. "Hm. Daniel Poirier. I like it."

"So do I." Daniel kissed her cheek. "But there was more. He set up funds for us. The documents for the accounts are all in here." He held up a dark blue folder, then passed her a oak box, its cover inlaid with a golden image of Apollo's lyre. "And this is meant for both of us."

"What's inside? Did he tell you?" Amélie flicked open the latch and lifted the lid. The crisp scent of parchment and wax hit her nose, reminding her of Erik. Inside lay a stack of carefully preserved letters, the one on the top with her name written in Erik's signature red ink. Amélie carefully lifted it up and broke the seal, turning it over to read what was written.

_My dear Amélie,_

_ It has been a very long time since you and I last saw one another. And so much has changed since then, little shadow. Before you worry about anything else, I did everything we discussed. Monsieur Leroux has received the manuscript, with the instructions, and I have watched him carefully as he documented my "true" history. If the timeline is altered, it shall be against the best of my efforts._

_ My fondest greetings to Daniel if you are sharing this with him. By this point, I am sure he knows that his inheritance is secure, provided my successors have not wasted the funds we laid aside._

_ I should probably explain that: I took in a orphaned boy named Nicolas as my ward approximately two years after you left. I daresay you would have liked him. He seems to like the stories I told him of his Tante Amélie, in any case. You two are quite alike. I suppose that's part of why I chose him. He is called Nicolas L'Ange now, and is my successor in all things: my position, my fortunes, and in the task of ensuring you and Daniel arrive safely, though that is a duty that may pass to one of his own heirs. I trust him. You and he have been the best of my life, my redemption._

_ I'm sure you're curious as to what became of the rest of us. Roger serves as godfather to Nicolas, and finally has the child he and his wife always desired: a little girl they named Danielle. Emmeline and Jerome's careers both progressed very well, until their joint retirement and marriage. Every one of their gaggle of daughters are now in the corps de ballet, and I sympathize deeply with the mistress who must deal with those little terrors._

_ I say mistress because at this point, Madame Giry has likewise retired, and is living comfortably in the estate of her son-in-law. Meg, despite all her complaints, managed to snag a baron for herself. I still visit them quite frequently. No one has forgotten you. Least of all Christine and Raoul. Their first son bears the second name of Daniel, and their third and final daughter the Christian name of Amélie._

_ Nicolas has acted as my emissary in procuring items for your perusal and use in that project which we discussed. You shall find those items in this chest. I trust that you will do me adequate justice, dear sister._

_ I am an old man now, Amélie, older even than Victor was when you met him. I have a tendency to lose my train of thought, and I know your impatience with such things, so I shall conclude this now._

_ I will never be able to repay the debt I owe you. All the good in my life has surely come from you, dear child, and if there is an afterlife, I can only hope to see you there and thank you for all that._

_ I love you, Amélie. Remember me well._

_ Erik_

"That sentimental old…" Amélie trailed off, trying not to cry. Daniel started rubbing her shoulders gently. "Thank you."

"Get some rest, Aimée. You need it. The letters will be here in the morning, and everyone else has already gone to bed."

"L'Ange… Charles, he's… it all makes sense now…"

"Sleep," Daniel said again. "_S'il vous plaît. Por moi._"

"_Oui, oui, je vais,_"she mumbled. "Good night."

* * *

><p>AN: I have one chapter left on this baby to wrap up the loose ends. I'll see you next time!


	27. Parting Words

**Preface for Opera Shadow, A Memoir by Amélie Cammelle**

_ The Opera Ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade._

If you are reading this book, you are probably already familiar with the above passage. And you most likely have also read the article that was published in the October/November edition of _Supernatural Bimonthly. _So, I will reinforce Leroux's original statement: The Opera Ghost really existed.

In the months I've spent laboring over this work, I have received copious amounts of letters and commentary on my endeavors. Some have been curious inquiries about my experiences, others have called me a liar and other names that I omit for the sake of courtesy.

Half the battle was getting this published as a memoir, the way I had intended. Most companies were only willing to look at my manuscript as a work of fiction. I do not want to be called a liar. _Opera Shadow _is the most important project I have ever created, and every word in these pages is true. You can find an appendix in the back of the book, including several newspaper clippings from my sojourn in the past, and, courtesy of my dear friend and publisher, James Crawley, the de Chagny family tree.

I suppose truth can be found in the eye of the beholder, much as beauty can be. In any case, _Opera Shadow_ is my truth. Treat it as fiction if you prefer, but don't let your disbelief cause you to disregard the message and feelings that I have poured into this little book. Truth or lies, there can be no denying that sometimes, the stories we think we know are not as simple as they seem, nor are all people.

A marquis can give up a life of comfort to follow a woman he barely knows, but still loves.

Lovers can find it in their hearts to forgive a man who caused them untold grief.

And a journalist and a Phantom can utterly despise one another and find that hatred transforming them into people they would never have expected to be.

If you wish to discover my story, you need only turn the page. If not, I'm sure there's another book on the shelf that will be more suited to your liking. The choice is yours. Either way, I wish you well.

~_Amélie Cammelle_


End file.
